


Enhanced Fashion Sense is a Perk of Being a Cat

by hey_its_lyn



Series: Being Called "Catboy" Qualifies as Cruel and Unusual Punishment [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, Jack and Janet Drake's A+ Parenting, Jason Todd is Robin, Minor Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Protective Selina Kyle, Sickfic, Slight Childhood Friends AU, Stalker Tim Drake, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Catlad | Stray, Tim Drake-centric, tim drake as Stray
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hey_its_lyn/pseuds/hey_its_lyn
Summary: When Catwoman drops into Drake Manor to steal back a stolen artifact, she's not expecting to find ten year old Timothy Drake standing in the doorway watching her.She's definitely not expecting to see him on a rooftop in Chinatown a few months later, taking pictures of Batman and Robin with a smile on his face.Well, she's always had a bad habit of picking up strays.
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Selina Kyle
Series: Being Called "Catboy" Qualifies as Cruel and Unusual Punishment [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713424
Comments: 50
Kudos: 1210





	1. Remember to Double Check Your Facts When Breaking and Entering

**Author's Note:**

> Written in three days, running on about six hours of sleep total, with absolute minimum editing involved. Cheers.
> 
> There are several time skips throughout both chapters. The entire fic covers about a year.

The Drakes are well-known archaeologists with a knack for taking artifacts they don’t have explicit permission to extract back to their private collection in their home in Gotham. Six months ago, Janet Drake uncovered an ancient cat statue in Egypt, a relic of a pharaoh's beloved pet. Despite the government telling the Drakes that all artifacts must remain within Egypt to be studied by Egyptian archaeologists, Janet somehow snuck the cat into her carry on and brought the little thing straight back to Gotham.

Which is why Catwoman is currently crouching on the roof of Drake Manor, working open the rather large skylight above the foyer. She can even see the roof of Wayne Manor in the distance. When the final lock clicks open (an abysmal security system, truly), Catwoman gently lifts the glass and slips inside the darkened manor. She lands on the old hardwood floors in a silent crouch, night-vision goggles allowing her to scan the room with little difficulty.

Honestly, this job is going to end up being the most boring yet. When’s the last time she had a little excitement? Oh, maybe she’ll swing by that jewelers on seventh street and trip the silent alarm by the safe where they store all the best goodies once she’s done here.

It’s known amongst Gotham high society that the Drakes are often out of the country for most of the year, going on digs around the world. The house is empty and quiet, and Selina doesn’t bother with her usual stealth as she makes her way through the foyer towards the library, with its adjacent hall for the Drake’s private art collection.

She rolls her eyes. The doors aren’t even locked.

The click of her heels echoes off of the high ceilings until she steps onto the plush rugs that spread throughout the library. The door leading to the art collection is tall and wide, made of what looks like dark mahogany. The handle twists easily in her hands.

For the Drake’s being who they are, the collection is rather lackluster. A long hallway, with paintings spread along the walls and podiums holding precious artifacts spaced in the gaps between paintings. The walls are plain gray, the floors the same hardwood as the rest of the house.

Truly boring.

Catwoman lets her eyes flicker over the many pieces, gloved fingers tracing the features of a particularly pretty looking glass tiger. Maybe she’ll take that as a commission, just as a perk for putting herself through the bore of this job.

Finally, she finds the statue she’s looking for. It’s small, nearly six inches tall, made of shiny black stone with glowing emeralds for eyes. The engravings are exquisite, and the cat looks truly lifelike. Such a shame the Drakes have it sitting her, gathering dust.

Catwoman pulls her bag away from her hip, picking the statue up and wrapping it in protective wrap and sliding it back into her padded messenger bag. The bag falls on the hip opposite of her whip, and Catwoman pats it absent-mindedly as she looks back at that oh so pretty glass tiger. She’s already reaching out to grab it when she freezes in surprise.

There are a pair of bright blue eyes blinking at her from the door of the library.

Catwoman blinks slowly. There is a child staring at her, draped in pajamas that look two sizes too big, bare toes curled into the floorboards. His hands are curled around what looks like a stuffed lion.

“The glass tiger is from China,” the child says, so soft that Selina nearly doesn’t hear it. “Dad snuck it through customs in a lead-lined bag.”

She blinks again. “Really? And the Chinese customs didn’t notice it at all? Just like that?”

The boy shrugs. “I don’t know. I just overheard dad telling one of the board members about it at a company dinner. I was supposed to be in my room.”

Huh. Odd. “Say,” starts Catwoman, “are your parents going to come bursting in here or calling the police any time soon?”

“No,” says the boy. “They’re in Belize until March.”

Catwoman grits her teeth. It’s November. “Really?” she asks, tone light. “And they just left you here all alone?”

The boy shrugs again. “I’m old enough to be on my own. Mrs. Mac comes by every afternoon to make dinner and do a light clean, then spends half a day Friday doing the deep clean while I’m at school.”

“And other than that, you’re here by yourself?”

The boy nods. “Yes, ma’am.” Catwoman nearly laughs in surprise at that. “I’m Tim, by the way,” he says. “Did you not think I was here? I heard your heels on the floor. Don’t you normally walk softly enough that they don’t click? I don’t know how heels work exactly.”

Catwoman watches the little boy carefully, going through her mental file on the Drake family. _Jack and Janet Drake, business partners and owners of Drake Industries, often out of the country on archaeological digs. One son, Timothy Drake, age ten. Apparently not out of the country on archaeological digs._

“You shouldn’t give out your name to just anyone, you know.”

“I figured you already knew it,” Tim shrugs. “You’re breaking in, after all. I figured you did your research.”

“I figured that you’d be overseas with your parents.”

Tim blinks at her, brows furrowed like she’s just spoken in another language. He hugs the stuffed lion closer to his chest, shifting from foot to foot. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Why?”

Catwoman frowns. “Because most parents don’t leave their children home alone for months on end.”

“Mrs. Mac is here. I’m always not alone.”

“Really?” Catwoman raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Because you're alone right now, by yourself in this nice big house with a terrible security system. What if it were someone else breaking in instead of little old me?”

Tim shuffles once more. He looks down at his feet. “I don’t know,” he eventually says, sounding unsure.

Catwoman sighs. “Look, kid. It’s not right you being all alone here, but it’s not my place to say anything else about it. You ever need something or don’t feel safe, you go see the Waynes, okay? They’ll take care of you. You got their phone number?”

Tim nods his head. “It’s in mom’s ledger. She has all the society family’s contact information.”

“Good,” says Catwoman. “Go write it down and keep it nearby when you’re by yourself.”

Tim nods again. Catwoman sighs at his obvious discomfort and confusion. She pats her bag, deciding to leave the glass tiger where it is.

“Stay safe, kid,” she says. “And go back to bed. It’s late. And if anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”

Tim rolls his eyes and smiles, a small, uncertain thing. “Obviously,” he says. “Have a good night, Miss Catwoman. Stay warm.” He turns around, shuffling out of the collection room and disappearing from the library in the direction of his bedroom.

Catwoman watches him go, a bemused smile on her face. She ignores the little voice in the back of her mind, promising herself that she’ll keep an eye on the place if she hears any weird chatter or if any rogues head out this way, as unlikely as that is.

She leaves the glass tiger where it is with one last look before leaving the collection behind. She exits the manor the same way she came, locking the skylight into place and slapping one of her silent alarms on it. If anyone but her opens it, she’ll know.

With her prize safe in her bag, she spares one last look at the manor before she jumps away into the night. She wraps the scarf from her bag around her neck to protect herself from the stinging chill, and laughs to herself at Tim’s reminder to stay warm.

What an interesting kid.

/\/\/\

The cat statue finds itself on a ship back to Egypt a week later.

Selina is still thinking about that pretty little glass tiger at Drake Manor and the adorable little boy who finds her there. She looks into him later, curled up on the couch with her laptop in her lap and a cup of cocoa to her side.

Timothy Jackson Drake. Ten years old. No family other than his absentee parents. Attends, surprisingly, one of the public schools in Bristol. Skipped two grades in elementary school. Home alone for nearly nine months out of each year. Only company in the form of a housekeeper he sees for an hour each night, excluding Sundays, when he’s left completely alone on the woman’s day off.

Selina has mixed feelings on the entire matter.

She thinks about sending an anonymous tip to GCPD, but she knows that nearly the entire police department in this city is incompetent, and even if Gordon is a halfway decent commissioner, one case of child neglect is not enough to grab his attention, even if it is a young member of Gotham’s high society. Besides, he’ll just end up in the foster system, and Selina knows that living in that big empty house is a better option than the foster system any day of the week.

Selina almost trips the alarm on seventh street to grab Batman’s attention and tell him about Tim. But Batman doesn’t busy himself with things like child neglect and he’d likely send a tip to Gordon if he even did anything at all, and Selina’s right back to where she started.

If anything, it would be Robin who would look into Tim’s situation and want to do something about it, but ultimately Robin does as Batman says, so if Batman says leave Tim to the police, that’s what Robin will do.

It’s endlessly frustrating, and Selina doesn’t remember the last time something unrelated to the job had her so worked up.

She doesn’t want to care. Doesn’t want to be caught up in thinking about a little upcoming high society, rich brat. Doesn’t want to worry about a little boy all alone in that big, empty manor.

Because Tim, despite his family, doesn’t seem to be the high society brat one might expect. He calls her ma’am and tells her to stay warm in the cold and doesn’t call the cops when she breaks into his house and steals a precious artifact.

Tim Drake doesn’t seem anything like his parents or the other society boys his age.

No, Tim Drake seems like a lonely little boy with no one looking out for him.

So Selina decides that she won’t do anything out of her way to watch out for the boy, but she’ll check in occasionally to make sure he’s eating and making it to school and that no other rogues have busted the manor’s entirely too simple security system to kidnap the tiny Drake heir.

Tim seems like a smart boy. He’ll be fine.

/\/\/\

She takes it back.

Tim Drake is not a smart little boy. Not at all.

He obviously can’t take care of himself, because he’s standing on a Gotham rooftop at 1:47 in the morning, in _February_ , holding a camera and taking pictures of Batman and Robin as they stop a simple mugging.

Catwoman can’t believe it.

Tim Drake is swamped in a winter coat much too big for him and old and worn enough that it’s something that a little society boy should never be caught dead in. But he’s holding an unholy expensive camera in his little gloved hands and smiling as he watches Batman kick a mugger into a wall.

Catwoman drops onto the same roof as little Tim, landing loud enough she knows that he’ll hear her and the click of her heels as she walks up to him. She sees the exact moment Tim notices her approach, as he freezes, lowering the camera and turning around very slowly. Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders when he sees that it’s her instead of someone else. Catwoman feels something mixed, unpleasant but warm, curl inside her.

“Hello, Miss Catwoman,” Tim says, smiling uncertainly, like he knows he’s in trouble but he’s happy to see her anyway.

“Hello, kitten,” Catwoman says. She nearly laughs at the shocked look on Tim’s face. “Want to tell me what you’re doing on a Gotham rooftop at two in the morning?”

Tim shuffles uncomfortably. His fingers twitch on the camera. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

Catwoman sighs. “Yeah, kitten, it kind of is. How about I give you a life home and you tell me about your little adventures?”

Tim nods, but doesn’t say anything. He tucks his camera into a bag sitting at his feet, slinging it over his shoulder and walking over to Catwoman’s side. Catwoman watches him come, breathing deeply to keep all her unwanted, concerning feelings at bay.

“You ever ridden a motorcycle before, kitten?”

“Uh… no?”

Catwoman smiles at him. “Well, you’re about to.”

They use the fire escape to get down from the rooftop, Catwoman going first and watching Tim to make sure he doesn’t fall. Frustratingly, the boy slides down the ladder with an ease that suggests he does it all the time. Catwoman refuses to admit that she’s a little impressed.

Once they’re both firmly on the ground, Catwoman leads Tim to where she stowed her bike in a hidden garage a few streets over. She pulls her spare helmet from her side pack, sliding it on Tim’s head. It’s a bit too big, but she adjusts the strap as tight as she can before putting her helmet on over her cowl and sliding onto the bike.

“Alright, kitten. You’re going to sit behind me and hold on tight, okay? Rest your feet behind mine.”

Tim clambers on behind her, and she feels him nod against her shoulder. His arms hesitantly wrap around her waist and she laughs.

“Hold on a little tighter or you’ll fall off.”

Tim does as he’s told, obviously uncomfortable. Well, Catwoman’s uncomfortable with a ten-year-old wandering around in East End in the early hours of the morning with no supervision and likely with no one knowing where he is. She guesses that they’ll both just have to deal.

Once she’s confident that Tim’s holding on tight enough that he won’t fall off, Catwoman brings the bike to life and takes off into the night. She goes slower than she normally would, careful to take the turns gently and make sure that Tim doesn’t let go.

She brings them out of East End and out towards Bristol. The ride doesn’t take a terribly long time, but by the time she’s pulling up to Drake Manor and Tim is whispering the gate code in her ear, Tim is shivering and Catwoman’s fingers and toes have gone numb.

The gate opens slowly, and Catwoman doesn’t wait for it to open fully before she brings the bike up the long, winding driveway. She stops at the front of the manor, raising a brow. It looks even more ridiculously opulent from the ground than it does from the roof. Tim hops off the bike, removing his helmet and holding it out to her.

“Thank you for the ride home,” he says, teeth chattering.

Catwoman takes the helmet, tucking in the side pack along with her own.

“No problem, kitten.” She turns the bike off, swinging her leg over the side and standing up. “So you going to invite a lady in or what?”

Tim blinks at her in obvious confusion. She laughs.

“I’m not here to steal anything, promise. I got what I wanted last time.” She pushes away the memory of that pretty glass tiger. “I just want to know why you’re climbing fire escapes and snapping pictures of local vigilantes.”

Tim’s shoulders droop. There’s an odd look on his face, a mix of hopefulness and dread. It makes Catwoman’s insides clench. Children should not be happy to have thieves willing to spend time with them, but should not look like Catwoman just kicked his puppy and is about to tell him to shoot the dog while it’s down.

“You’re not in trouble, kid. Promise. But it’s cold outside, so why don’t we have this conversation with some cocoa?”

Tim perks up slightly. “Please come inside, Miss Catwoman.”

This time, she does laugh. She follows Tim up the steps to the manor, watching him produce a key from inside his jacket and unlock the large door. She follows him inside, sighing when the warmth washes over her, beginning to chase away the chill of the night.

Tim shuts and locks the door behind them, gesturing for Catwoman to follow him. Tim leads them through what Catwoman can only call the front hall. Tim hangs his coat in a well-hidden closet, lining up his shoes along the wall. It doesn’t escape Catwoman’s attention that his shoes are the only ones there.

“The kitchen’s this way,” Tim says softly.

“Lead the way.”

The kitchen, like the rest of the manor, is huge. A large island takes up most of the space, but the rest of the room is lined with cabinets and what look like marble countertops. State of the art double ovens and a massive cooktop. Catwoman can barely make out where the refrigerator and microwave are hidden behind cabinet doors.

Tim disappears into what Catwoman assumes is the pantry, and she follows him. She watches him struggle on his tiptoes for a moment before she smiles, nudging him out of the way and grabbing the cocoa mix he was reaching for. She tucks the sugar under her other arm and shoos him out of the pantry.

“Go on and sit down,” she says. “You’re shaking like crazy, Tim. I got this. I’m told I make a killer hot chocolate.”

Tim smiles and makes his way back to the island with a new bounce in his step. Once he’s seated at one of the stools at the island, feet swinging several inches above the floor, Selina gets to work. She pulls the milk from the fridge and asks Tim where to find a pot and the mugs. Tim grins, hops down, and brings them to her himself. Catwoman laughs.

“Go grab a blanket or something while I get this ready. I swear you’re going to turn blue.”

Tim laughs but does as he’s told. Catwoman hears that patter of his footsteps as he races up the stairs towards what she assumes is his bedroom. Catwoman shakes her head, spooning in cocoa powder and sugar and adding water on the cooktop. She stirs the mixture as the pot heats up, and once everything is thoroughly mixed and thickened, she adds two mugs worth of milk and continues to stir.

Eventually, Tim pads back into the kitchen. Catwoman glances at him over her shoulder, pleased to see that he’s pulled a thick, fuzzy blanket around his shoulders like a cape. She is, however, curious to see the wooden box he’s clutching protectively to his chest.

“Anything else you want in your cocoa, kiddo? These will be done in a minute.”

Tim bites his lip, glancing to the side. “Marshmallows,” he says, like he’s never been allowed to have them before. “And maybe some whipped cream?”

Catwoman grins. “Sounds like my kinda drink. Go ahead and grab the marshmallows. I’ll see if I can find some whipped cream.”

Tim nods, setting the wooden box on the island and moving back into the pantry. Catwoman holds back a snort as the blanket drags on the floor behind him. She moves the pot off of the burner and moves over to the refrigerator, peering inside and quickly pulling out a can of Ready Whip. She barely stops from wrinkling her nose. Sometime, she’ll have to show Tim what real whip cream looks like.

Catwoman shakes her head. She needs to slow down and think rationally. She needs to stop the blaring _protect this child!_ alarms going off in every corner of her brain.

She nudges the fridge closed, setting the Ready Whip on the counter and returning to the pot of cocoa. The steam curling off the top tells her that it’s ready. She pulls the two mugs close, gently pouring the cocoa into each cup. Tim returns just as she sets the pot in the sink, clutching a bag of marshmallows to his chest. Catwoman shakes her head, failing at biting back her smile.

“Bring ‘em here, kiddo.” Tim complies, setting the bag into Catwoman’s outstretched hand before retreating to his seat at the island. “How many do you want?”

Tim shrugs, looking unsure. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never been allowed to have any with hot chocolate.”

Catwoman frowns. “Why on earth is that?”

Tim bites his lip. “Mrs. Mac thinks that too many sweets are bad.”

Catwoman snorts. “She’s got a point, but kid, a few marshmallows aren’t gonna kill you. Go on, dump in a handful.”

Tim furrows his brows, leaning across the island to reach into the bag, grabbing a small handful of marshmallows and gently dumping them in his mug. He watches them bounce and float in the cocoa with wide eyes.

Catwoman shakes her head. “And how much whip cream?”

“Just enough to cover the marshmallows, please.”

Catwoman nods, uncapping the Ready Whip and adds a layer of froth on top of the marshmallows. She adds just enough for it to rise above the rim of the mug, and Tim’s grin tells her that she should probably have dumped a few more sweets in his cup when he wasn’t looking.

As Tim wraps his hands around the mug, feet swinging back and forth from where he sits on his stool, Catwoman adds whip cream to her own cup, forgoing the marshmallows. She returns the Ready Whip to the fridge, rolls up the bag of marshmallows and uses a clip to keep out the air. When she’s done, Catwoman grabs her own mug and plops down on the stool next to Tim’s.

“So, I think it’s time you tell me about why you were in East End tonight.”

Tim deflates, fingers tightening around his mug. He takes a large drink of his cocoa, as though he’s trying to give himself more time to think about what he wants to say. Finally, he swallows, his shoulders drooping beneath his blanket as all of his weight is supported by his elbows on the counter.

“I was taking pictures of Batman and Robin.”

“I got that part,” Catwoman says, trying hard to sound gentle. “What I want to know is why.”

Tim sighs. “I have a knack for photography. The camera was a gift. And Batman is… I dunno. Batman is something to look forward to, I guess? I go to school, I come home, I get maybe twenty minutes to talk with Mrs. Mac, and then I’m all alone again. My camera makes it feel like it’s worth something.”

“You know how dangerous that is, don’t you, Tim?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You could be kidnapped; you could get hurt or lost. What if you can’t find your way home? You could be gone for hours and no one would know.”

“I know.”

“Imagine if those gangs saw you and recognized you. You’re the Drake heir, Tim. You may not be as recognizable as, say Dick Grayson, but if people find out who you are, they won’t hesitate to hurt you.”

“I know.”

Catwoman sighs. “How long have you been taking those pictures?”

“Since last fall,” Tim admits. “The camera was a birthday present and my parents had just left for China and I had just started school. I’m a lot younger than the other people at my school because I skipped so many grades, so I don’t really have any friends.”

“And the pictures give you something special to look forward to.”

“Yeah…”

Catwoman looks at the boy from the corner of her eye. Tim looks exhausted and sad. She hates it.

“How do you even find Batman? I’m guessing you don’t just pick a rooftop and wait for him.”

Tim’s cheeks flush. “I might have, ah, figured out his patrol routes.”

Catwoman blinks. It takes her a moment to process what he’s said. When she does, her tongue twists around the words she wants to say. All she manages is a strangled “What?!”

Tim shrinks into himself. “He follows the same three different patrol routes, and he rotates them on a regular basis. By watching the news and checking the BatWatch forums, it’s really easy to see where he frequents and when.”

“Tim, most villains can’t figure out his patrol routes. No offense, kid, but you’re _ten_.”

Tim shrugs. “I’m really good with patterns.”

“I’ll say.” Catwoman takes a long drink of her cocoa, watching the boy next to her and thinking. If he’s smart enough to figure out Batman’s patrol routes, who knows what else he could work out with the right tidbits of information. “Drink that chocolate before it gets cold. And why don’t you show me what’s in that box.”

Nodding hesitantly, Tim reaches for the wooden box and pulls it between him and Catwoman. She sees the large padlock but doesn’t say anything as Tim removes it. The boy takes a deep breath and pushes the lid open. It takes Catwoman a moment to realize what the box holds.

“Are those your photographs?”

“Yeah. I have some I still need to develop, but this is most of them.”

“Can I look?”

“I guess. They’re probably not very good though.”

Catwoman shakes her head, speechless. She pulls the first photo from the box, scanning it with careful eyes. It’s Robin, mid-swing from rooftop to rooftop. It’s a little blurry and unfocused, but Robin is centered in the picture and Catwoman can tell that it was taken down by the docks. She lays it face down and moves to the next photo.

This one is of Batman and Robin, standing on top of the police department headquarters in Old Gotham. The bat signal shines in the night sky behind them, and there’s a shadow of a figure in the background. Probably the commissioner, if the trench coat means anything.

There are dozens of photos. Most of them are blurry or unfocused, but a lot of them are amazing shots. Nothing near what someone would expect of a ten-year-old running around during the night. There’s a few that are crystal clear, snapshots of the vigilantes that almost look like staged shots.

One of Batman in particular stands out. He stands on top of a warehouse, cape fluttering behind him in the wind as lightning strikes, coloring the sky a striking whitish-blue and illuminating the caped crusader.

“Tim,” Catwoman breathes, “this is amazing.”

Tim huddles into himself. “They’re not that good,” he murmurs. “My other photos are a lot better.”

Catwoman levels him with a look. “I’m assuming those photos were taken during the day and didn’t require you running around Gotham at night to take them.”

Tim flushes again, the pink spreading to the tips of his ears. “Maybe.”

Catwoman whistles, gently laying the photos back in the box and allowing Tim to lock it up tight. “You got talent, kiddo. Lots of it. Smarts too.” She shakes her head. “I know that you’re not going to stop going out if I tell you too, but be safe, okay? Stick to those shadows and avoid the Bowery. Avoid the East End too, if you can. Even for someone sneaky smart like you, those places are too dangerous to be wandering around in. Trust me on that one.”

Tim nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers eventually.

“What for?”

“For not taking this away from me.”

“Kid,” Catwoman says, “You wouldn’t have stopped even if I told you to. You’re smart, Tim, almost too smart. That can be dangerous, okay? Just be safe, and use that brain of yours. Somethings are just too dangerous, and if that’s the case, you need to go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Catwoman laughs. “As flattered as I am by the respect, you don’t have to call me ma’am, kiddo. You’re going to make me feel old.”

Tim stifles a laugh. “Okay, got it, Miss Catwoman.”

“Oh my god, Tim,” Catwoman says into her cocoa. “Just call me Cat or something, okay? Hearing someone as tiny as you breaking out these big words is a bit…”

“Disconcerting?” Tim offers.

Catwoman snorts. “Case in point.”

The two laugh, sipping their cocoa as they each process just what has happened in the past hour. At some point, Tim looks up at Catwoman from beneath his eyelashes, brows furrowed as he thinks.

“Got something you want to ask?”

Tim bites his lip. “I mean, not really? Just curious about something is all.”

“Oh?”

Tim hums. “I dunno, it’s silly. I was just wondering… Why did you call me kitten earlier?”

Catwoman laughs, loud and clear. “Oh, Tim, kiddo. I just didn’t want to be saying your name out in the East End and broadcasting that the big bad cat has a soft spot for a munchkin named Tim.”

“I’m not a munchkin.”

“I hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re tiny. Itty-bitty. A baby. Kitten actually suits you better than kiddo because you’re so cute and tiny. With that fluffy dark hair and those bright eyes. Oh yeah, kitten for sure.”

Tim grumbles under his breath but doesn’t say anything else. Catwoman smiles, reaching over to ruffle his hair, though she pulls back quickly. She glances at the clock, wincing at the time.

“Alright, kitten, it’s time for you to go to bed.”

Tim glowers at the nickname, but it’s too late. Catwoman has decided she likes it too much to let it go. She’s right when she says it fits Tim well. Tim glances at the clock.

“Oh man,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “I have school in like four and a half hours.”

“That means you should go to bed then,” Catwoman says, collecting their empty mugs and depositing them in the sink. “What are your first few classes?”

“English and human sciences.”

Catwoman turns around. “Sounds easy. Sleep in and go in late.”

Tim looks horrified. “If I do that, they’ll call my parents and I’ll be in so much trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it, kitten. You’re going to have grays by the time you’re twenty at this rate.”

Tim grumbles again. Catwoman smiles.

“Go brush your teeth and go to bed. I’ll show myself out.”

“Alright,” says Tim. “Thank you for everything. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

Tim averts his eyes. “Have a good night Miss Catwoman…” Catwoman raises an eyebrow. Tim huffs. “Good night, _Miss Cat_.”

Catwoman shakes her head. “Close enough. Night, kiddo. I’ll see you around.”

“Uh-huh,” Tim says around a yawn. “Be safe.”

Catwoman watches him wander back up the stairs, blanket dragging behind him the whole way. She smiles as she quickly cleans up and washes and dries the few dishes, returning them to their proper places. Once she’s sure everything is how it was before, she heads outside, locking the door behind her. She throws a leg over her bike, spares one last glance towards the manor, and takes off into the night.

And if Tim is mysteriously excused from his first three classes after his alarm fails to go off for an extra two and a half hours, Catwoman will say that she has no idea what happened.

/\/\/\

Catwoman runs into Tim eight days later on a cafe’s rooftop at 11 o’clock at night. He’s sipping at a milkshake, and he has a second bag along with his camera bag. Catwoman drops by him and raises a brow when he hands her a second chocolate milkshake.

“You knew I’d be here?” she asks, bemused.

Tim shrugs. “I knew that the jewelers on seventh street where the silent alarm is pretty much always tripped just got a shipment of sapphires today, and it’s been nearly a month since they’ve been robbed.”

Catwoman laughs. “Smart kitten.”

“Thanks.”

They sit together quietly, legs hanging over the roof and dangling into the air below them. Sipping at their shakes, Catwoman nudges Tim with her shoulder.

“So, any more photos?”

Tim perks up. “A few. They’re developing now, but I think that they’re going to end up turning out pretty well. I got a really cool one of Robin flipping off of the bridge.”

“I’m sure Bats was happy about that one.”

Tim snorts. “I wish I could have gotten a picture of his face. He looked like Mrs. Talls when the class talks too much and she just gives up and puts on a movie.”

Catwoman laughs. “That’s beautiful,” she says. “I wish I could have seen it.”

Tim sips his shake, suddenly shifting nervously. “I have something for you,” he blurts before he can stop himself.

“Oh?”

Cheeks pink, and not from the cold, Tim leans to the side and grabs the second bag. Pulling it into his lap, he twists the strap between his fingers.

“I saw how much you liked it when you were at the manor, and, well… I doubt they’ll even notice it’s gone.”

Tim hands her the bag, and Catwoman takes it carefully. Sending Tim a glance, she unzips the bag and peers inside. 

“Oh, kitten,” she says, pulling out the little glass tiger she saw the first time she broke into the manor. “You didn’t.”

Tim shrugs. “Dad stole it. There’s no other way to put it. Besides, I doubt they'll notice it’s even gone. They’re lending a bunch of stuff to the museum for the gala next week, and they always let the museum keep a few pieces they like. There’s always more stuff added to the hall at the manor.”

Catwoman ruffles his hair. “Thank you,” she says. “I love it.”

Tim’s smile is blinding. “Good. It’s better you have it than just sitting there gathering dust.”

Catwoman hums in agreement. “So, who’s managing the Drake collection for the gala? Your parents are still out of the country, aren’t they?”

Tim shifts uncomfortably. “They’re coming home for a few days to attend the gala and then they’re flying back out. Apparently, mom’s PA forgot to put the gala in her calendar and now there’s a big fuss for them to get back in time. They’re sponsoring the gala so they can’t just _not_ show up.”

“Huh,” says Catwoman. “How do you feel about this?”

“I don’t really know. I’m glad they’ll be back, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“Hopes up about what?”

Looking down at the ground, legs swinging back and forth, Tim frowns. “That we’ll spend any time together.”

“And why’s that?”

“Normally when they’re home, they spend most of their time making sure everything is running smoothly at DI. That and making public appearances to prove they’re in a happy, stable marriage like every other high society couple in Gotham.”

“Ah.”

They return to their milkshakes in silence. Once the Styrofoam cups are empty and discarded in the dumpster below them, Catwoman slings an easy arm across Tim’s shoulder. She tries to hide her happiness when he leans into the touch.

“So, want to learn how to crack a safe?”

Tim grins.

/\/\/\

Selina knows that Tim’s parents have arrived home for the gala because she hasn’t seen him in a few days. Normally they see each other two or three times a week, even if neither of them are willing to admit that they seek each other out.

She knows that Tim doesn’t often go out when his parents are home. Not unless they’re fighting or in a particularly distant, business-focused mindset. Which she bets is more often than Tim is willing to admit. Especially this time they’re home, considering they sponsored this gala and helped plan it the last time they were in Gotham. Jack and Janet Drake are going to want to make sure the gala goes off without a hitch, which means Tim is going to be left as an afterthought. Again.

Selina fights down the fury settled in her stomach at the thought.

But it is because of these things, that Selina is a bit more than mildly surprised when she spots Tim walking into the museum in a well-fitted suit, settled off to his mother’s side as she and Jack Drake walk into the gala, arms twined. Selina must admit, the three of them play the perfect, happy, high society Gothamite family that everyone else envies.

What’s even worse is the fact that she now knows Tim well enough to know that the relaxed posture he’s taken is forced and he is so uncomfortable that he’d rather be stuck on a rooftop overnight and have his fingers turn blue from the cold to stay there for another moment.

Selina catches his eye from across the room and doesn’t miss the relief that flashes there. She smiles at him, and he offers her a small nod before his mother’s hand descends on his shoulder and yanks him away in the direction of the museum curator. It takes all Selina has not to roll her eyes.

High society people never change, it seems. Thankfully, Tim seems to be keen on avoiding being like his parents and nearly every other person in attendance.

“Miss Kyle.”

Selina turns around. She smiles, sly and coy, nothing like the smile she smiles moments before for Tim.

“Mr. Wayne,” she says. “Here to enjoy the artwork the city of Gotham has to offer?”

Bruce smiles. “Something like that,” he says.

“Uh-huh.” Selina takes a step closer, close enough that she can feel the warmth of Bruce through their clothes. “I find that Gotham has so much more to offer than other cities. Don’t you agree?”

“Certainly.” He holds out his hand. “May I interest you in a dance? We can further converse the, ah, perks of living in such a _wonderful_ city.”

Selina accepts the hand offered and allows herself to be pulled into Bruce’s side, slipping her arm through his own. He leads them to the temporary dance floor, where they sway among the other couples tired of staring at the pieces of art.

They don’t talk so much as flirt, moving closer and closer together with every spin until they are pressed tight together, no space left in between them. The current song ends and another begins, and Bruce and Selina just keep dancing.

Eventually, they break apart from the rest of the dancers, making their way over to the line of main exhibits selected for display. Along the way, Bruce plucks them each a flute of champagne from a waiter carrying a tray.

“So, Selina,” Bruce eventually says, “I’ve heard that you’ve picked up a new stray. Are the rumors true.”

Selina fights to keep her expression composed. “Whatever could you mean?”

Bruce shrugs easily, but his eyes are locked on her. “Oh, we both know of your love for cats. I was merely curious if you’d found another on the street and decided to adopt.”

“Ah, well that’s for me to know, isn’t it?” Selina says pleasantly. “I do admit that I have a soft spot for kittens in need, but who could blame me? Everyone needs a good home. Surely you would understand that.”

Bruce hums in response, saying nothing. It’s entirely obvious that the gears in his head are turning and churning as they look for an answer. Selina actually does roll her eyes this time.

“Ah, Bruce. There’s no reason to worry your pretty little head. I’ve been a good girl. Promise.”

Bruce looks down at her, expression conflicted. “I have no doubts,” he says carefully.

He glances over his shoulder and is unable to hide an amused snort. Selina’s brows raise.

“See something?” she asks.

Bruce shakes his head, smiling now. “My son seems to have made a friend while sneaking snacks and hiding in the corner.”

“Oh?” Selina turns and looks in the direction Bruce had looked. She laughs herself. “Would you look at that,” she says, trying not to give away just how amused she is.

Little Tim Drake is chatting avidly with Jason Todd, and sure enough, they’re munching on the little snacks Selina knows Tim snuck in his pockets. Jason is smiling, and Tim is rapidly trying to reign himself in and failing spectacularly. She turns back to Bruce, amusement clear. He raises a confused brow. Selina waves him off.

“The little boy is hiding behind your son, that’s all. I see that Jason is protecting people at all times.”

Bruce cracks a smile at that. “Of course. Jason’s a good lad. I’d expect nothing less from him.”

Selina hums. “Do excuse me, Mr. Wayne. I’m afraid I see an old friend that I’ve been meaning to become reacquainted with.”

“I see,” Bruce huffs. “Good luck with that one.”

Selina leans in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit.

“Thank you, Bruce, but I don’t think I’ll be needing luck.”

She pushes herself away from the man, and as she walks away, gives him one last wave over her shoulder. Selina is in and out of the closed African exhibit in seven minutes, a jade pendant hid snuggly in her clutch purse. She’s on her way towards the door when a familiar mop of fluffy blank hair appears in front of her.

“Hello, Miss Kyle,” Tim greets her, smile simple but eyes gleaming mischievously. “I hope that you’ve enjoyed your night.”

Selina muffles her laugh. “Of course, Mr. Drake. I was so happy to have received an invitation tonight.”

They both know that she actually had not received an invitation, but had snuck in through the side door.

“I’m glad that you’ve had a good time. The Drake family is always happy to converse with other art enthusiasts.”

“Is that so?” Selina laughs.

“Definitely,” says Tim. “I’m afraid I must go; my mother is waving me over. Have a good night, Miss Kyle.”

“You too, Mr. Drake. Don’t stay out too late tonight. Young men like you need their sleep.”

“Why of course.” Tim offers Selina his hand, and when she takes it, he curls his fingers into her palm before retreating. “I’ll leave you to the rest of your night now. I hope to see you at the gala next year.”

Selina smiles. “Of course. Good night.”

She watches as Tim scampers off. By the time Selina has hailed her driver for the night and is comfortably seated in the backseat, she’s grinning. She gives her address to the driver and unfurls her palm. In her hand rests a slim golden bracelet, embedded with rubies and sapphires that twinkle in the evening light.

Selina recognizes it as being from that jeweler’s she loves so much on seventh street. She also knows that it’s one of a kind and was bought up by a Gotham socialite minutes after entering the display. Slipping the bracelet onto her wrist, Selina laughs to herself.

/\/\/\

There’s a knock at Selina’s door at eight o’clock on a Wednesday night.

She’s in her pajamas, a pair of loose pants and a sweatshirt she’s nabbed from Wayne manor the one time she stayed over. Her hair is messy and her makeup has been off for several hours. She grabs her whip, tucks it into the pocket of her sweatshirt and answers the door.

She’s greeted with little Timothy Drake blinking up at her with red eyes.

“Kitten?”

“Hey, Miss Cat. I’m really sorry, but can I come in?”

Selina steps aside, face awash with concern. “Of course, of course, let’s get you some cocoa.”

She ushers Tim inside, shutting the door and locking it behind her. She sets Tim down at the kitchen table, wraps her fluffiest blanket around his shaking form, and immediately goes for the cocoa. God, little Tim’s only in a pair of sleep pants and a sweatshirt that looks like it’s been worn for years. Even his sneakers are only half on his feet.

“Can I have a coffee instead?” asks Tim quietly. He flinches at his own words. “It’s been a long night, and I might need it to…”

Selina turns to face him, brows drawn. She points her spoon at him. “You are ten years old.”

“I’ve been drinking coffee since I was seven and started working on computers. I started pulling all-nighters at five after the nightmares…” He trails off, folding in on himself as he pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, effectively hiding in it.

Selina sighs. “I will make you a mocha with a small amount of coffee. But I want the entire story this time, okay?” Tim nods. “That includes how you found out where I live.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers. “I promise no one followed me, and I--”

“Hey, Tim, kitten, you’re fine.” Selina abandons the stove and kneels down in front of him. “I’m not mad, I promise. I’m just worried, okay? I’m worried.”

Tim nods, biting his lip and saying nothing. Selina draws him into a hug. He stiffens before melting into her arms, a shuddering breath fanning the skin of her neck. She realizes then that Tim’s not merely shivering, he’s shaking. Full body, nervous shaking.

“Why don’t you come help me with our mochas and we can get started, okay?”

Tim nods against her shoulder, reluctantly pulling away. He stands, dropping the blanket and sticking himself to Selina’s side. She pulls him into the kitchen, grabbing the stool she keeps stashed in her pantry so Tim can reach the counter. As she pulls the ingredients from around the kitchen, she sets Tim up stirring the pot of cocoa, sugar, and water, showing him how to scrape the bottom and sides of the pot to avoid burning the pot or the cocoa.

Selina sets up the coffee pot and says, “Start from the beginning, okay? The very beginning.”

Tim closes his eyes, taking a long, deep breath. “When I was four, my family took me to the circus. I was really nervous, so my dad took me to get a picture taken with the main act for the night.”

Selina bows her head, shoulders caving forward. “The Flying Grayson’s.”

Tim blinks, focusing hard on stirring the mixture in front of him. “The Flying Grayson’s,” he confirms. “Their son, Dick, picked me up and told me that he was going to do a special flip for me, so I needed to watch the entire act really carefully. His quadruple somersault is a lot better now than it was back then.”

Selina’s suspicions click into place as she pours the milk into the pot.

“Right after he finished his somersault, the trapeze broke and his parents fell. I don’t really remember the rest. I saw them hit the ground, and everything went crazy. I mean, Dick screamed and Batman was crashing in through the roof. My mom was yelling and they drug me out of the circus and never looked back. Refuse to even talk about it now.”

“And the nightmares started,” Selina guesses. When Tim nods, she sets a hand on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles on his back through his sweatshirt.

“Yeah. They weren’t too bad at first, but then mom and dad went back overseas and I was alone in the house. Sometimes they didn’t call for a while, and I would worry, and the dreams would get really, really bad. So, I started just avoiding sleeping.

“I started messing around with computers to keep busy, and when my teachers noticed that I wasn’t paying attention, they sent me to the counselor. When I told her that I already knew everything the teachers were teaching, she gave me a bunch of different tests, then recommended I skip straight from kindergarten to third grade. Mom and dad were so happy that their son was so smart.

“When I was seven, I was going on like three days of being awake and my nerves were all over the place. There was some left-over coffee from their visit home, and I just started drinking it to help me stay awake. It’s been a bad habit ever since. I sneak it into the grocery order when Mrs. Mac isn’t looking, and she’s never noticed.”

“Kitten,” Selina says softly, “You know caffeine stunts your growth, right? It can be really bad to drink too much of it when you’re young.”

“Yeah, I figured that one out. But it kept me awake, and I started just sorta crashing when I got too tired, and it stopped the nightmares.”

Selina runs her fingers through Tim’s hair as she adds the coffee to the cocoa with her other hand, allowing Tim to keep stirring to distract him.

“So how does a seven-year-old, coffee addicted, computer surfing genius start stalking Batman?”

“I, ah, saw a clip of Robin doing a quadruple somersault on the news, and it all just sorta clicked into place. I mean, only the Grayson’s can apparently do that skill, and Dick was adopted by Bruce Wayne, who has the money, resources, and motive to be Batman. I’d always worried about how Dick was doing after his parents died, and watching him as Robin was kind of a comfort. You already know how I figured out their patrol routes and the photography thing. I was nine when all that happened, though.”

Selina hums. She shoos Tim away from the stove, sending him over to the couch and into his blanket. She follows moments later with two warm mochas. Once they are seated side by side on the sofa, drinks in hand, Selina pulls Tim into her side.

“And you figured out who I am and where I live how?”

“Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle are known for their inappropriate flirting at galas and parties. And as for your address…” Tim shifts in his seat, burrowing further into his blanket. “I may have followed you home one night after I had a nightmare. I meant to just go talk to you, but you were tired and injured, so I made sure you got home and left.”

“Oh, kitten. You can always come to me, no matter what. Okay?”

Tim nods. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good.” Selina tugs him a bit closer to her side. “Now can you tell me why you’re here in your pajamas on a school night when I knew you weren’t following Batman tonight?”

Tim takes a deep breath, fingers clutching onto his mug like his life depends on it. “My parents got back from an important meeting at DI tonight. Something about another company trying to buy us out. My parents were fighting about it, and dad… dad was drinking a little bit.”

Selina immediately tenses. Tim notices and back tracks as fast as he can.

“It was just a little! He had a drink with some of the board members before coming home, and then mom wanted some gin, so he had another. But then they were screaming at each other and mom started throwing the dishes. At least I think it was the dishes. All I heard was glass smashing. Then dad got louder and louder. It felt like the house was shaking. I couldn’t just sit there anymore, so I jumped out of my window and came here.”

“Oh, kitten,” Selina whispers. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

Tim sniffs, tucking his feet beneath his legs and curling up into a tight ball.

“Tim, honey… How often do your parents fight like this?”

Tim shrugs. “Every time they’re home, but that’s not very often. They try to hold it together in front of me, so I bet it’s worse when they’re travelling.”

“You know that your dad drinking like that isn’t okay, right? There’s nothing wrong with having a few drinks, but it’s wrong when you have so many that you get into screaming matches with your family.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Tim. “I just didn’t want it to be him. He’s an okay dad. I mean, he’s not great, but he tries most of the time. He remembers what camera I want and takes me to baseball games whenever he can.”

“Tim, hon, you’ve told me that you hate baseball.”

Tim looks sheepish. “It’s the thought that counts?”

Selina cards her hand through Tim’s thick hair, her arm wrapped half way around his shoulder. Slowly, but steadily, he relaxes into her touch, tension bleeding out of him.

“You’re welcome here anytime, kitten. Whether your parents are home or not.”

“Thanks, Cat.”

Selina presses a feather light kiss to his head. “Anytime, kitten. Now finish that mocha and we’ll watch some tv before I drop you back at your house.” Tim deflates, and Selina does a bit too. “I know, kitten, I know. I don’t want to leave you there, but your parents will notice eventually if you’re not there.”

“Yeah,” Tim sniffs again, arms wrapping around Selina’s middle as he snuggles up to her. “Yeah, I know.”

“You’ll be okay,” Selina promises. “I’ll always be here for you.”


	2. Congratulations! It's a Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving out at ten, wearing a catsuit, and making Robin run around Gotham like a headless chicken.
> 
> It's all about the context. Really.

Tim’s parents have been gone for just short of a week when the fever sets in. He wakes up in a cold sweat, shivering even though he feels like he's burning up inside. Tim has never been a sickly child, but when he does get sick, it hits him hard.

He stumbles out of bed, nearly crumbling to the floor as his legs shake, struggling to hold his weight. Dizziness crashes over him. Tim presses his eyes shut, inhaling sharply through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. Using the wall to support himself, Tim makes his way towards his bathroom.

The tile is frigid against his toes. Tim glares when he turns the light on, the harsh white making his head throb so hard that it feels like his brain is pulsing against his skull. He takes the cup from the sink and fills it up with water from the tap. Tim sips at it slowly, trying to ignore how it makes his stomach feel queasy.

Once the pounding of his head has receded somewhat, Tim pushes through his medicine cabinet to find the ibuprofen he has stashed behind the stupid gummy vitamins Mrs. Mac buys for him. He’s not supposed to have medicine in his own bathroom, but after a few migraines too many where Tim didn’t trust himself to make it down the stairs, he just smuggles it up anyway.

Tim downs three pills. Normally, Mrs. Mac hesitates to give him two, but Tim’s migraines often warrant four little tablets that he is so rarely allowed to have. The tablets stick in his throat as Tim slides down against the wall, cup clutched tightly in his hands. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Forcing himself to take another sip of water makes him want to cry in relief for his dry throat and hurl at the churning in his stomach at the same time.

It doesn’t take long for the queasy feeling of his stomach to turn violent. Tim is lurching forward, spitting acrid bile into the toilet bowl as his whole body shakes. His fingers curl into the cool porcelain, and the chill feels awful and wonderful at the same time. Tim’s skin crawls as more bile rises, bringing tears to his eyes.

 _Stupid_ , he thinks.

He should know better. He had skipped dinner, had a light lunch of leftover soup, and nothing for breakfast except a half piece of toast. He has nothing solid in his stomach. Of course, the medicine would make him sick.

Tim shivers as he feels something cold seep into the legs of his pajama pants. Distantly he realizes that his glass was knocked from his hand in his rush to get to the toilet, spilling water across the bathroom floor. Tim can’t find it in him to care even as harsh shivers wrack his body. 

Resting his head between his arms in front of the toilet, Tim tries to control his breathing. He’s panting and the short breaths make him dizzy and lightheaded. He forces himself to pull deep lungfuls of air into his chest, exhaling slowly in a vain attempt to calm his hammering heartbeat.

Somehow, Tim finds it in himself to distract himself by thinking.

He knows that he should call Mrs. Mac. He’s ninety-five percent sure that he has a fever, and combined with the migraine steadily growing behind his eyes and the chills that leave him a shivering mess, he either has a really terrible cold or he’s caught the flu.

Tim swallows thickly, wincing at the taste of bile coating his tongue and teeth.

Mrs. Mac has the week off for her oldest daughter’s wedding. She’s not even in Gotham. She’s halfway across the country somewhere in Iowa where her daughter and her fiancé live. Even if he calls her, Mrs. Mac can’t do anything to help him.

She picks the groceries up early before her plane leaves the day before and leaves a week's worth of dinners sorted between in the refrigerator and the freezer. He has cereal and bread for breakfast and plenty of canned goods and simple things to make for lunch. School's out for a long weekend after the conclusion of this semester’s parent-teacher conferences.

Tim’s been on his own for more than a week before. He’ll be fine. He just needs to sleep off some of this nausea before pulling himself downstairs to make some soup so he can keep down the medication that will hopefully bring his fever down enough that he doesn’t notice it. He can just sleep the rest of the ickiness off. Tim nods to himself, eyes drifting closed as he sags into the rim of the toilet, allowing it to hold his weight as he drifts off.

/\/\/\

Tim’s not sure how long passes between falling asleep at the toilet bowl and waking up with his face smooshed on the bathroom floor. His mouth tastes foul, his tongue feeling thick and fuzzy. He’s dizzy in the weightless kind of way that makes him think he might not be able to make it down the stairs without crumpling to the floor.

Rubbing at his eyes, Tim takes a moment to try and reorient himself. He takes a deep breath and places his hands on the bathroom floor, slowly pushing himself up to his knees. He uses the counter to support himself as he shakily makes his way to his feet. The world spins. Tim snaps his eyes closed, breath hissing against his teeth. Tim forces himself to take several more deep breaths before he opens his eyes once more. 

He tries his best to avoid his reflection in the mirror, instead reaching for his toothbrush. He pours as much toothpaste as he dares onto the bristles and sets about trying to clear the filth from his mouth. He brushes twice, spitting out globs of gooey blue foam that makes the queasy feeling return in vicious waves.

Tim sticks his mouth under the faucet to rinse the remaining paste from his tongue. As he’s patting his mouth dry, his eyes catch his reflection in the vanity mirror. Tim winces.

He’s always been pale and boney, and dark circles under his eyes have been a constant since he was about six years old and the nightmares got so bad that he just stopped sleeping all together. Now, his skin looks sunken into his face, hair is stuck to his forehead and damp with sweat. His cheekbones stick out at a near scary angle and the bags under his eyes are so dark that not even his mother’s best concealer would have a chance to cover them. His eyes are bloodshot and dry, making the blue of his iris look almost cracked in a way that reminds Tim of broken glass.

Tim looks away. He doesn’t like looking into the mirror in general, but seeing himself sick makes it even worse than usual. He knows that he’s small, that most people think he’s seven or eight rather than ten, nearly eleven. But when he’s sick, Tim knows that he looks like a mere scrap of a child, all knobby knees and sharp elbows. Skin and bones and everything a Drake is not supposed to be.

Pushing away from the sink, Tim slowly makes his way out of his bathroom. He’s lightheaded and shaky, but he feels a tiny bit steadier than before. He frowns at the uncomfortable chafe of his still damp sleep pants against his legs. Tim detours to his dresser, kicking off the pants and slipping into a pair of flannel-lined sweatpants that he’s had for years, making them soft and comforting.

Tim shuffles out of his bedroom, taking great care to steady himself with the wall, especially as he makes his way down the stairs. He’s always hated the grand staircase. It’s big and gaudy and takes up half the foyer. The wood is old, and though well taken care of, it’s always cold against his feet, sending chills up his legs and through his entire body. Tim settles for it without his typical thick socks because the cold is doing wonders for the unbearable heat at his core.

Padding along in the dark, Tim makes it into the kitchen moments later. He doesn’t bother turning on the overhead lights, instead settling for the faint glow from both the refrigerator and the light above the stove. Tim has to drag out the stool he keeps hidden under the island so he can reach the cabinet where the medicine is kept, tucked into neat little rows. Tim squints against the dark until he finds what he’s looking for.

He pulls down the large bottle of ibuprofen, setting it on the counter before dragging the stool away to grab a glass and some crackers. Tim doesn’t bother hauling himself up onto the island stools, instead settling on the floor with his goods.

Regretfully nibbling at the crackers and ignoring the way they scrape at his throat, Tim glances at the clock. It reads 3:23 in glowing red light, and Tim deflates, leaning back against the cabinets behind him. He sips his water, nibbles on more crackers until he’s confident that he’s stomach is full enough to not reject another dose of medicine. 

Tim dumps three more pills into the palm of his hand, tossing them back with a drink of water. Thankfully, the tablets don’t stick in his throat, and Tim sips his water once more as he rolls the package of crackers to keep the air out. He leaves the crackers and the pill bottle on the counter, already knowing that he’ll be returning to them in another six hours when he can take another dose.

Until then, Tim hauls himself to the couch in the formal living room, unwilling to make the trek back to his bedroom and risk taking a tumble down the stairs. He drops onto the loveseat, pulling a fluffy blanket he keeps hidden under the coffee table over himself and burrowing into the cool leather. He can feel his breathing evening out until finally he begins to drift back to sleep. Tim can only hope that the sickness will take him and tuck him away deep in his unconsciousness, away from the nightmares and all they bring.

/\/\/\

The next several days pass in a blur.

Tim sleeps most of it away, calling himself out of school once the long weekend has passed. The school’s secretary asks if he’ll be okay on his own, unable to stop herself before she says that he sounds terrible and exhausted. Tim promises her that Mrs. Mac will be back to the manor soon and hangs up before any more can be said.

He reheats the pre-made meals Mrs. Mac leaves him, though he can only stomach the soup and some of the homemade mac and cheese she knows he loves. His stomach is still too iffy to handle anything else. The terrible, dry crackers are an unfortunate constant companion, and Tim only forces them down when he’s ready for another dose of medicine but can’t imagine eating a full meal.

Eventually, sometime between days three and four, Tim moves himself full time into the living room. The stairs are harder to manage than even the most rickety fire escapes that Tim has scaled during his nightly escapades. So, Tim brings a stack of clean pajamas down from his room and sets them in the guest bathroom.

He spends nearly all of his time curled into a ball on the love seat, his warm cheek pressed tightly against the cool leather. He can’t help but think that no couch can ever be as comfy as this loveseat, though it will need extensive cleaning once he’s no longer sick.

Tim starts to feel better on what he thinks is day five. With all of the sleep blurring his sense of time and the fact that he hasn’t even touched his computer since that night he woke up sticky with sweat from his fever, Tim finds he can’t keep track of the days of the week. He finds that he actually doesn’t care.

Day possibly six goes well, and Tim even ventures upstairs to retrieve his laptop and his favorite book. He sets up on the loveseat, fingers flying across the keyboard as he works on the code he’s been developing for the past few years--an algorithm to track the movement of vigilantes and villains, not just in Gotham, but nationwide. Almost like a database for citizens to track criminal activity.

Tim eventually feels his eyelids grow heavy, and even though he really wants to keep working on his code, he can feel the pressure building behind his eyes and he knows that he should get some sleep before he gets worse again.

So, Tim shuts his laptop, curls up with his blanket, and falls right back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, everything aches in a way he’s never ached before. His entire body feels like one big bruise, his voice is completely gone and it feels as though he’s swallowed a package of razor blades every time he coughs or eats or drinks. His nose is so stuffed he can only breathe through his mouth, and his fever seems to have spiked even higher than that first night when he first realizes he was sick.

Tim’s entire body shakes with his shivers, his hands and feet going completely numb with the cold as goosebumps rise across his skin, even as the rest of him overheats. He kicks off his blanket sometime throughout the night, and when Tim wakes up, he’s covered in half-cooled sweat, and the freezing air of the manor sends his teeth chattering so hard he’s scared they’re going to break.

Tim can’t think, and it’s terrifying.

Everything’s hazy and distorted, twisting around him like some sort of off-brand horror movie. His thoughts drift by in mere flashes, nothing concrete, nothing staying long enough for Tim to connect the dots scattered throughout his mind.

At some point, he thinks he should call for Selina, but then he remembers he doesn’t have her phone number or anyway to get in touch with her. He thinks he remembers her telling him to call the Wayne’s if he ever needed help, but surely she didn’t mean like this.

The Wayne’s are, well, the Wayne’s are Batman and Robin and Nightwing, whenever Dick comes around and decides to drop in for a patrol, which hasn’t happened for a long, long time.

Surely Selina meant call if there’s another rogue breaking into the manor or kidnappers trying to nab him so they can ransom him back to his parents.

Tim’s just sick. Batman doesn’t worry about sick kids. He has much, much more important things to do. And besides, Tim’s been sick before. He’ll be fine. He keeps telling himself this, right up until the point he finds his legs can’t support his weight and he drops to the floor like a stone when he tries to get up to take his next dose of ibuprofen.

Tim clips the side of his head in the corner of the coffee table on the way down, and he can feel something damp and warm curling across his forehead, matting his hair and slipping down his face. It’s odd. Tim thinks he might be crying, but he can’t tell. And the wetness is coming from his forehead and not his eyes. It’s not until he’s blinking a thick red liquid out of his eyes, getting it stuck all over his eyelashes that it clicks.

He’s bleeding.

Huh. That’s odd.

It must not be too bad, because Tim doesn’t get up. He doesn’t think he could if he even wanted to. He’s just so tired. Tired and cold and hot and aching and sticky and bloody and apparently, Tim thinks a little distractedly, using the very last of his brain power, apparently going a little delusional too.

He finds he doesn’t care that much.

Tim sleeps on the floor for the rest of day seven, but when he gets a crick in his shoulders and neck that just makes his constant migraine even worse, he pulls himself up and drops back into the couch where he can curl into his pillow. He doesn’t even make a grab for his blanket despite how bad he’s shivering. He has a fever anyway, right? The blanket will just make it worse.

Tim doesn’t really remember anything about day eight. All he knows is that he doesn’t get up from the couch, doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t keep up on his medicine or his crackers or even his water intake. He’s tired enough to drift, and he’s finding that not caring is so much easier than worrying all the time.

Before Tim can make sense of any of those thoughts (because he knows on some level he should be very worried, but he just can’t make sense of why he should be worried or why he should care), there’s a cool hand pressing against his forehead and a soft murmuring in his ear.

Tim tries to open his eyes, only half succeeding. Through the blurriness of half-lidded eyes, he sees someone crouching down next to him, carding a hand through his greasy, sweaty hair as they gently probe at his forehead with their other hand. He whimpers as a sharp shock of pain shoots across his face. The hand pulls back, though the one in his hair stays. He leans into it.

“Oh, kitten,” the person says so softly that Tim doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or not. “I’m so sorry, Tim. I’m so sorry, kitten.”

The nickname makes Tim squirm. He blinks dazedly. His fever must be really bad then, because if he’s right, that means…

“Cat?” he asks, voice breaking and hoarse.

“Yeah,” the person, Cat, says, sounding odd in a way Tim can’t understand. “You’re going to come home with me, okay? I’ll take care of you until you’re all better, kitten. Promise.”

Tim’s eyes drift closed again as he hums. Not being alone sounds really nice right now. He thinks he’d like to not be alone.

/\/\/\

Tim can tell before he’s even fully awake that there’s light coming inside, and it’s going to hurt when he’s awake enough to open his eyes. He’s lying on something soft, but it doesn’t feel like the leather of the loveseat. He doesn’t feel as sticky either, though he still aches absolutely everywhere.

Tim opens his eyes very slowly, blinking to help himself adjust to the light. He is right in thinking that it will hurt, because it does. Tim has to fight the urge to snap his eyes right back shut and go back to sleep. He instead gives himself time to adjust to the light before looking around and taking in his surroundings.

He’s definitely not in Drake Manor. He’s lying in a soft, queen sized bed, complete with a pile of pillows and a navy-blue quilt. It takes Tim much longer than he’d like to admit to realize that he’s hooked up to an IV, what looks like a banana bag passing through the drip into where the IV rests in the back of his hand, pumping him full of the nutrients he missed while he was sick and not really eating.

His brows furrow. He must have been really dehydrated to have the IV inserted in the back of his hand. If he remembers right, that’s only done when the other veins are too small to find and the person inserting the IV has to resort to the easy to access but painful to use veins on the back of the hand, where there’s little to no muscle to hide the discomfort of the needle in his skin.

Tim shakes himself out of his thoughts, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that it’s a good thing he can hold a coherent train of thought. He looks around the room once more, frowning. Before he can even attempt getting out of bed to look around, there’s a soft knock at the door before it’s swinging open from where it was only partially closed across the room.

Tim blinks when Selina Kyle pokes her head in the room, dressed in sweatpants and a ratty sweatshirt that’s about five sizes too big, dark smudges under her eyes and her short hair messy. Her eyes widen when she spots Tim sitting up.

“Hey there, kitten,” she smiles, making her way over towards the bed. She sits on the side of the bed, close enough that her hip nudges Tim’s leg. “How are you feeling?”

It takes Tim a moment to respond. He’s still working through the backlog (or rather lack thereof) of information about his exact situation.

“A lot better than before,” he says a few moments later.

Selina smiles again, a thin, tired thing that makes her look much older than she is. Tim doesn’t like it at all.

“That’s really good, kitten.” Selina purses her lips, thinking for a moment. “Do you remember anything about what happened?”

Tim shakes his head, wincing at the slight stab of pain and dizziness the motion causes. “Not really… I woke up feeling really sick Thursday night, and I kinda camped out in the living room so I didn’t have to deal with the stairs. It gets kinda blurry after, uh, after day three, I think?” He fiddles with the quilt. “How’d I get here?”

“I brought you here,” Selina says. She pointedly ignores the shocked look that overtakes Tim’s features, leaving him slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“Wha… Um, Why… Why would you bother with, uh, with that?”

Selina frowns. “Because I care about you,” she says carefully. “I hadn’t seen you in almost two weeks, and there was no sign of you anywhere on the streets. I stopped by Drake Manor to check on you, and I found you burning up on the couch with blood all over your face.”

Tim winces, prodding at his forehead and finding what feels like a bandage underneath his fingers. “Oh.”

Selina shakes her head. “Kitten, I’m not mad at you here, okay? I want you to know that.” Tim nods absentmindedly. Selina sighs, continuing, “Why were you all alone, Tim?”

Tim looks away. “My parents are gone for the next four months. A dig in Malaysia.”

“I know that, kiddo. But what about the housekeeper who checks up on you? Shouldn’t she have been there to take care of you?”

“Her daughter’s getting married,” Tim shrugs. “She had the week off to go to the wedding. I’ve been left alone longer.”

Tim flinches back when Selina hisses. She immediately smooths a hand over the quilt covering his legs.

“Shh, it’s okay, kitten, it’s okay,” she soothes. “I’m not mad at you, okay? I’m worried, that’s all. I know you’ve been left alone before, but that doesn’t make it right? You were…”

She takes a deep breath, and Tim watches curiously as it seems like she fights with herself over what to say. Eventually her shoulders slump in what Tim recognizes as tired defeat.

“You were really sick, kitten,” Selina finally says. “If you were just a regular civilian, you would need to be in the hospital right now. Hell, kitten, I was so worried I almost took you to the hospital myself.”

Tim swallows thickly. His thoughts are still muddled and it takes him a moment to put together his question, even though it’s a simple one. “Why didn’t you?”

Selina offers him a watery smile. “Because I can take care of you here, and if I took you to the hospital and they found out I’m not your legal guardian, there would be a lot of questions, and Tim, sweetheart, CPS would have been called.”

Tim physically recoils. _“What?!”_

“Shh, I know, kitten, I know. That’s why I didn’t take you there right after I found you. I knew that it…” She shakes her head. “Listen, Tim, I’m not going to lie to you here. You could have really gotten hurt being alone like that when you were that sick, okay? Your fever was 104 and you were unconscious for thirteen hours after I brought you here and got you on some antibiotics. I almost took you to the ER anyway, CPS be damned, because you’re so sick. The only reason I didn’t is because I know that the system here in Gotham chews kids up and spits them out. Even if you were only in for a little while, it would change you, and I didn’t want that for you.”

Tim blinks, unsure what to say. His mind tries to wrap around what Selina has said, but he just can’t manage it. After several minutes of silence, Tim staring at his lap, eyes unfocused, and Selina gently stroking her fingers through his hair after she moves up to sit next to him, Tim looks at her.

“Thank you,” he says, voice breaking. “I… Just, thank you, Cat. Really.”

Selina presses a feather-light kiss to the crown of his head. “Of course, kitten. I would never think of doing anything different.”

Tim nods, but doesn’t say anything else. He clutches the navy quilt tightly in his hands, not realizing why his eyes are burning until the tears are dropping onto his closed fists. He tries to blink them away, furiously wiping at his eyes. When the tears don’t stop, a sob works it’s way up his throat, shuddering through him like a physical blow. Before he knows it, Tim is curled over, sobbing into Selina’s chest as she pulls him into a hug, holding him close and running a hand up and down his back in soothing circles.

Tim cries harder and sinks into Selina’s warmth.

/\/\/\

Later, over homemade chicken noodle soup and _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_ , Selina tells Tim that she’s not sending him back to Drake Manor alone. She says she’ll find a way to deal with Mrs. Mac without hurting anyone or raising anyone’s suspicions, but that under no circumstances is Tim to stay in the manor alone ever again.

Tim starts crying all over again, but this time, he’s smiling too.

/\/\/\

True to Selina’s word, she doesn’t send him back to the manor. Once he’s better enough to go back to school, she drives him each morning on the back of her bike. On his first day back, they stop by the manor afterwards so he can pick up his belongings, and then they spend the rest of the night and the following weekend moving Tim into Selina’s second bedroom.

Tim knows that Selina isn’t taking on any extra jobs like she normally would, instead spending her evenings with him. They watch movies, she starts to teach Tim how to cook and how to make a killer hot cocoa, they play board games, and Selina teaches him how to play poker and how to bluff his way to victory. (Tim has an excellent poker face.) Sometimes they just sit together in the living room, Selina reading a book or looking through art profiles while Tim works on homework or works on his code on his laptop.

Eventually, after some puppy dog eyes from Tim, Selina continues their lessons in lock picking, safe cracking, and restraint escaping. Tim can crack a safe in two minutes and forty-nine seconds, can get himself out of full-body cuffs while upside down in one minute and twenty-two.

Selina laughs when she realizes that his ankles and wrists are slim enough he can slip right out of most restraints with ease, but he doesn’t because he wants to know how to do it anyway.

Eventually, after pleading and a home cooked (and only slightly burned) meal from Tim, Selina relents and begins teaching him how to use a whip. She gives him one of her old ones that fits his smaller size, and though she doesn’t teach him much, she teaches him enough.

(Tim picks up a bo staff six weeks after moving in and just grins when Selina raises an eyebrow at the sight of it.)

The school year begins its final crawl towards the last day. Tim’s parents extend their trip another five weeks. Tim bites the inside of his cheek, takes three deep breaths, and continues dicing the vegetables for dinner when he hears. Mrs. Mac still thinks he’s staying with a friend so that he’s not all alone in the manor, and from his phone calls with her, she’s happy to hear it.

Of course, nothing can ever stay perfect.

/\/\/\

Catwoman’s out on her first job since Tim’s incident with the flu and his subsequent move into her apartment. He had told her no less than nine times that yes, he would be fine for the night while she’s busy dropping into a museum and scooping up stolen artifacts and some particularly pretty jewels. 

If she knows that he’s eavesdropping the entire time through the comm he asked her to install in her cowl, she doesn’t say anything. (Of course she knows, but Tim is thankful she allows him the comfort of following along with her.) He hasn’t been out and about in Gotham after dark with his camera for nearly two and a half months, and he’s starting to get twitchy.

Tim’s working absentmindedly on homework, only half listening to Catwoman’s comm through his earbuds. The math homework is fairly easy, but it’s tedious, and the teacher wants them to ‘show their work, and no skipping steps’, which is so frustrating, Tim kind of wants to fail the assignment out of spite alone.

But his parents still receive his transcripts and report cards, as well as any calls from the school, so Tim has to retain his straight A’s and spotless record unless he wants to face their disappointment at whatever point they return home.

Tim’s nearly fallen asleep on top of problem thirteen when he hears Catwoman swear loudly through the comm. He jolts up, jumping so that he nearly topples out of the kitchen chair.

“Catwoman?” he asks hesitantly. “Are you okay?”

There’s a burst of static and another swear. _“Hey there, kitten,”_ Catwoman says through gritted teeth. _“Things are getting a little messy out here. Seems that another smuggler from the other side of the Atlantic has decided he wants in on the action too.”_

Tim bites his lip worryingly, debating whether or not to keep talking. He doesn’t want to distract her, but at the same time…

 _“Shit!”_ Catwoman shouts, and Tim freezes at the loud _pop!_ that echoes through the comm.

“Cat, do they have guns?!”

Tim can hear Catwoman gnash her teeth in frustration. _“Kitten, I’m really sorry, but I’m turning off the comm, okay? I need to focus, and you don’t need to be hearing this. I’ll see you soon, alright?”_

“Cat, wait—!”

But she’s already severed the connection, leaving Tim standing in their kitchen with furious, worried tears in his eyes. He can feel the sting of his nails digging into his palms. Tim forces himself to take a deep breath, then another, and another, until his breathing slows down. Tim closes his eyes, counts to ten, then grits his teeth and decides to get to work.

Leaping across the apartment, Tim grabs his laptop and sets up at the kitchen table in record time. He slides a headset Selina keeps tucked away onto his head, fingers flying across his keyboard. Catwoman may have severed the comm connection, but her tracker is still active.

Tim tracks her through Old Gotham and into Chinatown, where she leads her pursuers through a long chase through the district. Tim realizes fairly quickly that she’s running them in circles, trying to confuse them before she makes her final run for it. Tim purses his lips. He can definitely help with that.

It takes Tim less than ten minutes to break into Chinatown’s power grid, another six to shut down every light in a five-mile radius of Catwoman’s position. He cuts the traffic cams and all sensors while he’s at it. He knows that her with her goggles, leaping through the pitch-black night won’t be a problem. Hopefully the others don’t have the same tech.

Tim can see Catwoman’s tracker slowing down, and when he realizes that she’s stranded on a roof, likely surrounded, Tim swears a string of curses colorful enough that Mrs. Mac will be washing his mouth out with soap every day for a month if she hears him. (A perk of a businessman father and company dinners—Tim learns how to swear very early on in life.)

Tim overrides Catwoman’s comm.

“Please don’t be mad,” is the first thing he says. He hears Catwoman grunt, but he guesses she’s too preoccupied to say anything at the moment. “I’ve cut all lights, cameras, and sensors in five miles of your position. Mine still work because they’re on a separate network. If you lose the others, I can lead you through a blackout so they can’t track you.”

There’s another burst of static, a shout, and what sounds like Catwoman breaking someone’s nose.

 _“Tell me more, kitten,”_ Catwoman says, and Tim knows from her tone that she’s grinning.

“Head East on Premier,” Tim says, fingers flying across the keyboard even faster than before, his eyes plotting several different courses through the city and setting them up so they’re all ready at a moment’s notice. “Turn left at Grant and Forth. How close are the pursuers?”

_“About two-hundred-fifty yards, give or take.”_

“Sharp right into the alley off of Jefferson. There’s a fire escape to your left, tucked in the corner. Once you’re on the roof, head North until you hit Coventry. If you can, hide on the bridge and let them pass you before circling back to East End. If they find you, head North East towards Gotham Square. Nightwing has an off the grid safehouse there and it blocks all signals. You can crash there until they’re gone.”

_“Do I want to know how you know about that?”_

“The safe house?”

_“Mm-hmm. Something you want to tell me?”_

Tim snorts. “You know this story, Cat. Nightwing isn’t exactly the definition of stealthy, and the safehouse was purchased under a Grayson Richards. It’s public access. He’s just a dumbass.”

 _“Language,”_ Catwoman scolds, but Tim can barely hear it through her stifled laughter. _“I’ve reached the bridge. Hiding under the support beams and waiting to see if they take the bait.”_

“Understood. Let me know so I can reroute you if necessary.”

Catwoman hums but doesn’t respond. Tim takes a moment to lean back and take a deep breath, noticing for the first time just how hard his heart is pounding. He holds his hand out in front of him and isn’t surprised in the slightest to see it’s shaking. Tim puts his hand down and looks back to his computer.

It’s a few more moments before Catwoman’s voice crackles over the comm. _“They took the bait. They’re heading North East towards Gotham Village. You keeping me in the dark ‘til I get back home.”_

“Yeah,” says Tim. “Take your normal route and I’ll cover you.”

_“You know my normal route home?”_

“Cat, I figured out Batman’s patrol routes when I was nine. I followed you around for weeks, and I literally live with you now. Of course I know your preferred route.”

Catwoman snorts. _“Point taken,”_ she says. _“No reason to be smart about it.”_

“I did learn from the best.”

 _“Oh, kitten,”_ Catwoman laughs. _“You haven’t learned anything yet.”_

/\/\/\

An hour later, Selina and Tim are both sitting on the couch in their pajamas, mugs of cocoa in hand. Selina watches Tim over the rim of her mug, and the boy hesitantly smiles at her.

“I’m sorry I overrode your comm,” he says. “And hacked the power grid. And the DMV.”

Selina snorts. “Tim, I’m not upset with you, hon. Not in the slightest. It was quite a pleasant surprise to hear you in my ear with a plan right there. Saved me a lot of time and effort. And the DMV deserved to be hacked anyway.”

Tim’s smile grows until it’s closer to a grin. Selina laughs and ruffles his hair.

“So, I have a question for you.”

Tim raises his brows, feeling the warmth from his mug creep into his hands. He watches Selina’s face, openly curious. He nods to prompt her into continuing to speak.

“You miss going out, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Tim admits. “It’s a lot better now than when I was cooped up at the manor, but I’m getting twitchy just sitting here at night. I really do miss it.”

Selina grins. “So that brings me to my next question. How would you feel about a mask?”

Tim’s jaw drops. “What? Are… Are you serious?”

Selina hums, taking a sip of cocoa. “I wouldn’t joke with you about a mask, Tim. Now, you’d need a lot more training before I let you out of my sight. You’d have to work for it, work to keep it. It’s dangerous out there, and I know you know that, but you need to be prepared for it.”

“Cat,” Tim whispers, awed. “I… Thank you! Just, thank you!” Clumsily, Tim sets his cocoa down, plucks Selina’s out of her hand and jumps into her arms for a hug. He buries his head in her shoulder, squeezing tight. “Thanks, Cat. Thank you so much.”

Selina hugs him back. “Anytime, kitten. Anytime.”

/\/\/\

Tim works for his mask, and he earns it fairly quickly. He knows it’s only because Selina will have him sticking to her side whenever they go out for the first several months, maybe even the first year. He also knows that Selina’s being lenient because she’s seen him jumping around Gotham for the past six months, on his own, in sneakers and jeans with a camera bag slung over his shoulder.

Selina refuses to let him see the costume before it’s done, claiming it’ll be a surprise. It’s supposed to be ready by the last day of school, which is quickly approaching, only about a week away.

Until then, Selina has him go over everything he’s learned under her, before and after he’d moved him and she offered the chance to wear a mask. Pick the locks, crack the safes, escape the full body cuffs and a strait jacket while upside down, steal Selina’s favorite coffee mug and hide it for an entire day. Then do it again, and again, and again.

But Tim doesn’t mind.

He loves it. Lives for every new challenge, thrives in whatever scenario Selina throws at him. For the first time in a long time, Tim is learning something. And he never wants it to stop.

/\/\/\

“I am not going to be called ‘Catlad’.”

“Oh, but kitten, it’s adorable.”

“It’s cruel, that’s what it is. Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Come on, kitten, it’s not that bad. It’s not any worse than Robin. Or Kid Flash. Or Speedy. God, don’t even get me started on Speedy.”

“It’s worse than Speedy. And that’s saying something.”

“It’s better than ‘Catboy’!” 

“Anything is better than Catboy!”

/\/\/\

The last day of school arrives, and for once in a long time, Gotham’s sky is clear and the sun is shining. Tim wonders if it’s a good or bad omen. A sign of good luck or the universe saying, ‘Here, enjoy some happiness up until I whap you upside the head while you’re not expecting it. Cheers!’

Still, Tim enjoys it while he can. 

His parents will be back in a few weeks, meaning he’ll have to temporarily move back into Drake Manor until they leave on their next trip. Sure, most of his stuff will stay at Selina’s, and they likely won’t be in Gotham for long. But whereas a year ago, Tim would be vibrating in anticipation for their arrival, now he’s counting down the days with a sense of dread.

He tries to brush it off. They’ll be in Gotham a few weeks max. They’re almost never here more than two, and three weeks is a record that they’ve never obtained. And he still has time until they get here to enjoy himself, enjoy living with Selina, enjoy the new suit that just arrived at Selina’s apartment today.

Tonight will be his first night on the streets, not as the little boy with the camera, but as Catwoman’s apprentice. He still hasn’t chosen a name, but there’s really no need for one. Not yet, at least. There’s extra safety in anonymity.

He’s jittery with excited nerves as he waits for Selina to pick him up as she usually does. She tells him in the morning that she might be late to pick him up, so Tim finds the bench where he used to hide when he first moved into the junior high building, when he was so much younger and smaller than the other kids.

He plops down, setting his backpack in the grass below him and pulling out a packet of stock reports and board notes from DI. His mother has been telling him to start looking more into the business side of Drake Industries since she was in Gotham for the gala at the museum back in March. Tim figures he should go ahead and read the stupid reports before she gets back so he doesn’t fail her questioning when she inevitably asks about it during their single typical ‘family outing.’

Tim barely makes it past page one of the financial team’s first draft of the next year’s budget proposal when a shadow falls over him. Looking up, Tim blinks in surprise. His stomach falls to his feet.

“Hey, kid,” says Jason Todd, hands stuffed in his pockets and backpack hanging off of one shoulder.

Tim blinks once more. His report lays forgotten in his lap. “Hi,” he squeaks, finally finding his voice.

Jason’s lips quirk up in a hint of a barely there smile. He drops his bag on the other side of the bench and takes a seat next to Tim. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, but it still surprises Tim every time it happens.

He meets Jason briefly at the gala in March, and embarrassingly enough, freaks out and proceeds to talk the other boy’s ear off. Jason entertains him, likely because it has the other high society people giving him an even wider berth than when he stands with Bruce.

They go to the same school, though they’re in different classes and almost never see each other. Still, occasionally he or Jason stumble upon each other and talk until the bell rings or they part ways for whatever reason. Tim embarrasses himself nearly every time.

“What on earth are ya reading?” Jason asks, snapping Tim’s attention to him.

Tim looks down at the forgotten reports. He bites back a wince. “Reports for Drake Industries,” he says.

Jason’s eyebrows skyrocket. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Tim shrugs, shifting uncomfortably. Based on Jason’s frown, he doesn’t manage to keep the disdain out of his voice.

“Why?”

“My mother told me to look into it when she was home last, and if I don’t read through something from every department, she’ll find out.”

Jason’s frown turns harsher. “That’s a load of bull,” he says. “You’re a kid. You got no reason ta be readin’ reports like some old guy.”

Tim folds the edges of the papers. “Better to get used to it now than later, I guess.”

Jason is silent for a moment, as though thinking about what he wants to say. Eventually he says, “From what ya’ve said before, I get the feelin’ that ya really don’t want to be a businessman like mom and dad.”

“Not particularly,” Tim says hesitantly. He instantly regrets it, mind reeling at the implications and his failure to stop himself from saying something he shouldn’t have.

Jason must notice because he bumps their shoulders together. “Chill,” he says. “It’s not like I’m gonna rat on ya. It’s not your fault your parents push this stuff on ya. _You_ should get ta decide what ya want to do with ya life. It’s not up to them.”

Tim shifts again, looking at the report in his lap and biting the inside of his cheek. “I guess.”

“If ya don’t wanna tell them ta shove it now, wait til you’re a bit older then go ta college and major in whatever ya want or just do your own thing. They can’t stop ya.”

Tim bites his tongue. They could cut him off; they probably would. Or maybe they’d entertain him and let him do what he wants for a year or so, then cut him off and expect him to come crawling back to DI to take his spot in the company. He doesn’t say any of this, but he’s sure that Jason knows he’s thinking it. Jason’s smart like that. Tim notices it when they’re at the stupid gala and he shields Tim from the wandering ladies who want to ‘rescue’ him and bring him back to his parents.

Jason doesn’t wait for him to say anything. He just reaches out and ruffles his hair.

“Thanks,” Tim eventually offers.

Jason gives him a small smile. “Course,” he says. “Adults are stupid like that.”

Tim grins, but before he can say anything, the sound of an engine rumbles as a bright blue Ducati rolls up the street. Jason tenses at the sight of it.

“That’d be Dick,” he says, his smile wiped clean from his face. “I gotta get goin’, but I’ll see ya next year. Enjoy your summer, kid.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Jason gives him a small wave, tossing his backpack back over his shoulder and heading over to where Dick has parked the bike, holding out a bright red helmet. Tim can see Jason’s scowl from the bench, and he frowns. Watching as Jason grabs the helmet and stuffs it on his head, Tim wishes he could hear what they’re saying. Once Jason has his backpack over both shoulders and is seated behind Dick on the bike, the Ducati rumbles and tears back off in the direction of Wayne Manor.

Tim goes back to his report with a frown, though it’s only another few minutes until Selina’s own bike is parked at the road. Tim happily stuffs the dumb reports in his bag and jogs over. He grabs his helmet and slides onto the bike behind Selina.

“Was that who I think it was?” she asks.

Tim is suddenly thankful that Selina bought him a modular helmet that hides his face rather than the spare half helmet that he uses when Selina first starts bringing him to and from school. He knows that his cheeks are burning.

“Maybe,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Selina laughs.

“How is it that Batman doesn’t know that Catwoman is bringing a kid to and from school every day?” Tim asks.

Steering the bike out of the parking lot, Selina hums. “He doesn’t have a tracker on me or anything, kitten.”

“I’m sure that he monitors his son’s school for threats,” Tim counters.

The rumble of the bike is loud enough that he can’t hear Selina over the engine and traffic, so he turns on their helmets built in comm system just in time for him to hear Selina say,

“Oh, I’m a threat now, huh?”

“You know what I mean!”

“Don’t be like that, kitten,” Selina says. “I take that as a compliment. And as for your question, I have no idea. I’m fairly certain Bats knows that I’ve picked up an apprentice, so he might just have written it off as me looking out for them.”

Tim blanches. “What?!” he shrieks. “How?! And why would your apprentice go to the same school as his son except if… Oh, no. Oh god no. This can’t be happening, Cat… I…”

“Calm down, kitten,” Selina soothes. “You’re fine. Bats won’t try anything, I promise. He inferred that I had picked up a stray at the gala in March. Probably saw us on the rooftops one night.”

“He knows who I am!”

“Maybe,” Selina admits. “But he won’t touch you. He knows who I am, and he hasn’t done anything about that. He knows where I live, kitten, and GCPD hasn’t broken down my door yet.”

“That’s different,” Tim argues. “You guys are… I don’t know. A constantly evolving version of an on-again/off-again relationship.”

“You’re right, it is different. But as long as you’re with me and not terrorizing innocents, Bats will leave you alone. And if he doesn’t, he’ll have to deal with me. And that won’t be pretty for him.”

Tim’s heart is still racing when they cross into Chinatown and park the bike in Selina’s garage. Selina slips off her helmet, tucking it away in it’s sleeve before turning to face Tim, who’s still sitting frozen on the bike. He watches as she sighs, crouching down in front of him and putting her hands on his shoulders.

“Tim, sweetheart, look at me. You’re going to be okay. Batman isn’t going to arrest me or take you away and force you to go back to Drake Manor. He won’t tell your parents or call CPS or come anywhere near you. You know how I know this? Because I won’t let him, kitten. If he tries to do anything, I will stop him, okay?”

Tim nods numbly, finally slipping out of his helmet and crawling off of the bike. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Selina pulls him into a hug. “Nothing to thank me for, kitten.” When they pull apart, she’s grinning. “And besides, if he ever tries to touch you, you have the greatest ammunition to keep him away.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Tim. He hasn’t thought of that.

“You know who he is under the cowl, kitten. And you figured it out on your own. He tries to touch you and you throw that in his face. You’ll be fine.”

“But won’t he be scared that I’ll, I don’t know, sell him out or something?” Tim hedges. “He won’t like a kid knowing who he and Robin are. And Nightwing, even though they’re fighting right now.”

Selina shakes her head, leading them towards the stairs that lead towards their loft. “Like I said, as long as you’re not hurting people, he’ll leave you be. I know who he is, and if he lets me be, he’ll leave you alone too. Especially if you're my apprentice.”

The numbing panic begins to bleed out of Tim’s system, and he slumps into Selina’s side. They make it to the loft, and Tim drops his bag in his room before returning to the living room to find Selina with a bag of popcorn and a devilish grin.

“I’d ask about your last day of school, but,” She tilts her head at the coffee table, where a flat black box sits. Tim’s earlier excitement returns, and Selina laughs. “How about a quick fashion show, instead?”

Tim doesn’t say anything, laughing breathlessly and snatching the box, rushing back to his bedroom. He strips out of his school clothes and pulls the costume from the box. He runs his fingers across the material, awed, before he quickly shimmies into the suit. Once he’s dressed, boots and all, he stands in front of his mirror to observe himself before modeling for Selina.

The suit is the same color and material as Selina’s, some mix of Kevlar and leather that he knows will pad any falls and serve as armor in any fights. It’s snug, but not in the same way as Selina’s catsuit. It’s snug so that people can’t grab onto spare fabric that can catch and trip him.

(“No capes!” screams Edna in the back of his mind. He smiles at the thought of the time Dick’s Robin got his cape caught in the door of the Batmobile and the time Jason’s Robin was about to jump off a roof and Batman simply grabbed his cape and let him dangle three stories up like a kitten caught by its scruff.)

It’s a bodysuit, though the zipper runs up his chest, hidden behind what looks like a mini version of a taser hidden behind the high collar. Tim snorts, but he’s thankful for the extra protection. A hood can be pulled up to hide his face, and instead of a cowl, he has goggles that can fit over a domino mask or rest on the top of his head. He’s sure that they’re full of lots of fun technology that he can’t wait to get his hands on. He laughs when he realizes that the goggles look like cat ears when resting on his head.

A dark gray belt wraps around his waist, several compartments full of gadgets that will take him days to organize and become familiar with. His whip rests on his hip, and there’s a holster for his bo staff on his thigh.

His boots come part way up his calves, light to make it easier to move silently, with a sturdy tread for jumping across roofs and padding around his ankles for support. His gloves stretch just past his wrists, and there’s retractable claws and a grip that isn’t exactly sticky, but gives him confidence that his fingers won’t be slipping any time soon.

Happy with the suit and knowing he won’t make a fool of himself, Tim steps out of his bedroom, striking a pose that Selina can see from her spot on the couch. Selina grins, offering a slow clap.

“You look amazing, kitten.”

Tim preens, skipping over to sit beside her on the couch. 

“How does it feel?”

“Really good,” Tim says. “I’ll need to break everything in, but I love it.”

“Good.” Selina ruffles his hair, knocking down his hood. “I plan for tonight to be a test run through the city to get you used to wearing it. Want to go through all the gadgets until dinner is ready?”

Tim beams. “Yeah!”

Selina has him take off his belt, his goggles, the whip, and the staff, laying them out on the coffee table in front of them. She painstakingly leads him through every compartment of the belt, emptying each of them one at a time and explaining their contents. While he spends thirty minutes reorganizing the belt the way he likes, Selina makes mochas and stirs the soup that’s been cooking all day.

Tim gets a feel for both the whip and the staff, both of which Selina had commissioned with his suit as a surprise.

She explains all the hidden fail safes within the suit. The panic buttons (in his belt, on his staff, on the handle of the whip. Tim laughs. Selina says he can never be too safe. Tim hugs her and says thank you.) and the nasty electric shock that anyone who tries to open his suit without turning off the safety will receive. The claws in his gloves, also with the ability to hand out electric shocks. Selina tells him he has three trackers hidden throughout the suit, though she only tells him the location of two of them.

(“Don’t want you sneaking out on me.”

“Come on, I’m responsible!”

“Says the boy who snuck out to take pictures of Batman.”)

By the time Tim feels familiar enough with the suit to hit the streets for the night’s test run, the sun has almost set and dinner is ready. He and Selina eat and chat about his last day. Tim explains the encounter with Jason, and Selina gets this silly grin that will not go away.

When the leftovers are put away and the dishes done, Selina convinces Tim to take a nap before they head out. It doesn’t take much. He’s been awake since 6:30 that morning, and the prime ‘Mask Hours’ don’t start until about 11.

Tim twists and turns with excitement before he forces himself to slow his breathing and drifts off into an easy sleep.

/\/\/\

It’s August, and Tim decides that this summer has been the best few months of his life. His parents are home for a week and half in June, but then they’re apologizing for not being there for his birthday and boarding the company jet and taking off across the Atlantic yet again.

Tim happily races back to Selina’s apartment with his duffle bag full of clothes. He spends the days improving his hacking abilities, finishes his vigilante/rogue finding algorithm, though he stores it on a flash drive and leaves it alone for the time being. He spends his nights racing across rooftops and tumbling through the air, Catwoman laughing and following behind him.

Normally when she has a job, Tim stays back at the loft and runs the comms and looks out for anyone who might interrupt her. On the nights she goes to Seventh street, Tim snuggles in bed with his laptop and tries to hack Drake Industries. It’s embarrassingly easy, and Tim doesn’t bother strengthening the firewalls. Instead, he plants fake files to confuse the hell out of the managers he knows are assholes and the board members he knows are corrupt.

If he sends a tip to the Israeli government that the Drakes might be lifting an illegal artifact back to the states after his parents call in July, well, no one will ever have to know. His parents buy off the officials to avoid legal troubles, but the artifact stays where it belongs.

Sometimes, Catwoman will bring Tim with her on easier jobs. Nabbing a stolen painting from the art museum they both know inside and out, returning a crate containing a smuggled statue back to South Africa before it can be delivered the next morning.

Tim learns quickly, thrives when Catwoman gives him the chance to get his hands dirty. Sometimes, when she’s in a good mood, she lets him play distraction because she knows he finds it immensely amusing.

So, while Catwoman is dropping into the penthouse of a Drake Industries board member who just received a wonderful gift from Tim’s parents in the form of a stolen Japanese wood blocking panel, Tim leads Robin in a chase around the Diamond District.

“Slow down, damnit!” Robin yells at him, jumping over a pile of rotting boxes on the rooftop of some apartment building.

Tim laughs, flipping through the air until he lands on the roof of a wonderful coffeeshop he frequents with Selina when they’re in the area during the day. “Not my fault you can’t keep up,” he calls back.

Tim watches as Robin grits his teeth, glaring as he uses his grapple to drop the four stories from the roof of the apartments to the cafe.

“You’re just a slippery bastard,” Robin says once his boots are firmly planted on the cafe roof.

Tim sets his hands on his hips with a frown, though he doesn’t move from the roof to continue to the chase. “Come on,” he says. “Language.” He makes a show of covering his ears.

Robin practically growls. “If you’re young enough that ya can’t say bastard, then you’re too young ta be jumping around in a catsuit.”

“Well, that’s not fair, Mr. Pixie Boots.”

Tim laughs as Robin’s face flushes a very deep red. One thing Catwoman has taught him is how to act—how to be cheeky and sweet and confident and sly. And through all of that, Tim discovers he rather likes being sarcastic and cheeky, and the suit gives him the chance to do that without embarrassing himself and messing up by turning into a stuttering mess.

“And not being able to say something is much different from choosing not to say something” says Tim. “It’s not that I can’t swear, but I choose not to be a vulgar vigilante.”

“You little brat!” Robin seethes, lunging forward.

Tim laughs, stepping to the side and letting Robin stumble when his foot catches in a hole in the concrete. Robin regains his balancing, whirling around to face Tim.

“What’s your problem?”

Tim tilts his head to the side. “What’s yours?”

“You,” says Robin flatly.

“Well, that’s not very nice,” responds Tim. “And I don’t have a problem. I’m just here for Cat and my own amusement. In fact, I’m known for having solutions to problems rather than causing them.”

Robin frowns. “You’re not the one causing trackers and cameras ta glitch every time Catwoman has a job go wrong, are ya?”

“I have no idea about what you’re talking about.”

“Brat!”

Tim smiles. “I’ve been called so much worse.”

Robin lifts his chin. “If you’re known for solving problems, how are ya caught up with me now, huh? Shouldn’t ya be wiggling yourself free by now? On your way home to mommy?”

“Well, first off, Cat is not my mother. Second,” Tim gives Robin a flat look. “Ever heard the word distraction before?”

Robin’s face shows the moment it all comes together. “You led me on a wild goose chase so Catwoman could rob someone?!”

“Well, duh. Bats is busy with some gang bangers last I checked, and Nightwing hasn’t been around in a while. So, knocking you on your ass and dragging you through Diamond seemed like a great way to make sure Cat had all the time she needed.” Tim shrugs. “It’s fun for me too. Good workout.”

Robin stares at him, his jaw dropped. “You… you… what the hell?!” He spins on his heel and stalks away, sending a grapple line back into the apartment building across the street. 

Tim cups his hand around his mouth. “You’re too late!” he calls. “Cat’s done for the night!”

Robin lands on the apartment building, cape fluttering behind him as he scowls down at Tim. “Seriously?”

Tim offers him a wave. “See you around!”

He takes off towards East End before Robin can say anything else, laughing to himself when he realizes Robin is still too busy seething to follow.

/\/\/\

It’s a few days later when Tim is camped out on the roof across the street from the Natural History Museum, waiting for Catwoman to climb out onto the roof so they can head home. She brought him along to watch this time, not allowing him inside, but instead having him watch through cameras and explaining what she’s doing as she’s doing it. Catwoman says he can join her next time to shadow a full job.

Just as Catwoman’s head pops up through the skylight, a shadow is falling across Tim and grabbing at his ankle.

He reacts quickly, kicking out with his other leg as he rolls over, jerking his foot free. Tim gets to his feet, staying in a low crouch as he reaches for his bo staff, readying himself to hit his panic button if he finds it’s necessary. He’s more than a little surprised to see Nightwing looking down at him with a raised brow. Tim didn’t even know Dick Grayson was back in Gotham.

“Come on, Little Wing,” Nightwing says, sounding bored as he looks over his shoulder. Tim spots Robin standing at the edge of the rooftop, wearing his familiar scowl. “This is who has you and B all worked up? He’s tiny.”

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Robin says.

Nightwing rolls his eyes. “Not any more than you are, I’m sure.” He turns back to face Tim, smiling as Robin huffs behind his back. “Hello there. I’m Nightwing, though I’m sure you know that. It’s nice to meet you.”

Tim keeps his face blank, fighting to keep down the excitement rolling in his belly. This is _Dick Grayson_ , the first Robin.

“Can I help you?” he asks, proud when his voice comes out sounding annoyed. He hits the button on his staff that lets Catwoman know he’s encountered a Bat and can’t just slip away.

“Yeah, ya can go home,” says Robin, walking forward. “And ya know, stop wearing a catsuit and read a book or something.”

“I read plenty, thank you,” Tim sniffs. “I average about seventy thousand words a day when Catwoman takes away my laptop.”

Nightwing and Robin both blink in surprise.

“So, what’s a cute little nerd like you doing out here anyway?” Nightwing asks.

“Learning,” says Tim.

“Learning?” repeats Robin doubtfully.

Tim shrugs. “Watching Cat is very informative.”

Nightwing huffs. “And ‘Cat’ just lets you follow her around Gotham at night in a catsuit?”

Tim ignores the jab. “An age-appropriate catsuit with several fail safes,” he says, now truly annoyed. “Not that it’s any of your business or within your own capabilities to judge. You know, with your own nighttime activities and history behind you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Nightwing.

“At least I’m fully covered, with several tasers set to electrocute someone who even touches my suit without permission.” Tim glances over at Robin with a wry grin. “And I know what pants are called.” He turns back to Nightwing. “So, don’t come judging Cat or doubting me, Boy Hostage.”

Both Nightwing and Robin stiffen. Tim can’t decide if he should roll his eyes or panic and run.

“I think you meant to be looking at Robin with that last comment,” says Nightwing.

Eye rolling it is. “You can’t be serious? No one in Gotham is stupid enough to think that Robin shrunk five inches and changed his entire body type in a year.”

“You didn’t tell me he was this smart,” Nightwing says, glaring at Robin. 

At least he doesn’t try to deny it.

“I didn’t know,” Robin says through gritted teeth.

Tim huffs. “Anyone who pays attention notices tall and lithe to short and stocky. And you know, an obvious age difference.”

“I’m starting to see why B asked me to help out this weekend.”

Tim’s eyes narrow. _Crap_. Batman’s actively looking into him. Robin just hasn’t been complaining to big brother. He’s been debriefing him on Batman’s orders. _Shit_. Tim remembers him and Selina planning the stakeout earlier in the week, reviewing it tonight over dinner before they went out. Recalls the map of the area and the highlighted escape routes. Once he has about eighty percent of a plan, Tim acts.

No smart remark, no wave goodbye, no telegraphing his movements like a shift in his weight or a flicker of his eyes.

Tim just falls backwards off the edge of the roof.

He hears Nightwing lunge with a shout, hears Robin swear up a storm that rivals Miss Isley when she’s watching a documentary about the rising pollution in the Amazon. Tim ignores both of them and lands deftly on his feet on the balcony one floor below. He darts inside the empty executive office, not caring about any alarms he’s triggering.

Not looking back to see if he’s being followed, Tim sprints out of the office and onto the open floor of the law office whose blueprints he memorized last week. He heads for the stairs, making it to the second floor and leaving the stairs to hide in the ladies bathroom.

Unconventional hiding places, he figures. No idea if Nightwing and Robin will look for him here with just how random the spot is. Depends on if they saw him leave the stairs.

Tim pulls on his goggles, watching the minicomputer coming to life on the lenses. He pulls up Cat’s own tracker, frowning when he realizes she’s all the way in Chinatown. Batman must have gone after her while he sicced his sidekicks (excuse him, former sidekick and current sidekick) on him.

Tim waits for ten minutes until he’s sure that Nightwing and Robin aren’t on the second floor. His guess is that they figured he ran out the back alley off the ground floor or grappled off a different balcony to make a run for it. Tim could never outrun them; that’s why he’s hiding in the women’s restroom and feeling a little bit like a perv, even though it’s empty.

Slowly, he makes his way off of the second floor and outside. Pulling out his own grapple gun, Tim takes off in the night. He figures it will be safer to make his way back to the loft and send Catwoman a message that he’s safe rather than seek her out.

Robin and Nightwing were either meant to apprehend him for Batman to come and question later, or they were doing what he always does to Robin and serving as a distraction to keep him from helping Cat, likely in the form of a city-wide blackout until she gets home.

Damn them all.

He takes back that worship phase that lasted five years. The bats suck. All of them.

Tim works his way from building to building, forcing himself to be careful and stick to the shadows rather than become sloppy in his rush to get home. He makes it to Little Italy, spies Luigi’s Pizza out of the corner of his eye, then swears in a panic when Nightwing vaults off of the pizzeria’s roof and speeds towards.

Tim drops mid-swing from his grapple line, tucking and rolling to avoid getting hurt, even though he knows he’ll have some terrible bruises tomorrow. Tim leaves his grapple where it is, instead taking off in a dead sprint in the opposite direction.

Batman knows where Selina lives. Batman probably expected Catwoman to have told him to return to the loft if he’s ever being pursued by a bat. Nightwing and Robin were probably expecting him to try and go home.

_Damn it, that means Plan B, which is an absolutely terrible plan._

Tim starts heading towards Chinatown to meet up with Catwoman, while she’s with or running from Batman. He knows Plan B is a terrible plan, but at least then he’ll be right next to Catwoman and not alone and being chased by two-bat trained vigilantes with more than triple his experience.

Tim makes it across the river and into the Diamond District. He launches himself onto the roof of a bus heading in his general direction, laying low and hoping the darkness of the night will hide him. His suit is dark, meant for stealth, not done up in bright primary colors that beg for attention.

His hopes are dashed when he hears the thud of someone else landing on the same bus.

Tim thinks for a moment that maybe he should have gone to Miss Isley, though that probably wouldn’t have helped his ‘Catwoman is a wonderful mentor, and I am totally safe under her tutelage’ argument. He knows Miss Isley and the Bats really don’t get along. Which is exactly why she would hide him and pretend she doesn’t know he exists.

Tim grits his teeth, glancing behind him to see both Nightwing and Robin crouching on the top of the bus.

“What would it take for you to just leave me alone?” he calls, partly out of curiosity and partly to give himself time to think.

“Answers,” says Nightwing simply.

Tim hisses. Nightwing seems amused. Tim glares at Robin.

“And you say I’m a pain in the ass,” he says.

Robin shrugs. “Ya are. I just decided ta be one too. And ya know, when Bats tells ya to do something, ya should probably do it.”

“Sounds complacent,” says Tim, just to piss him off.

Nightwing sets a hand on Robin’s shoulder when the younger vigilante bares his teeth in a snarl.

“Sounds smart,” Nightwing corrects. “B’s got a lot of experience, kid. He just wants to talk.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “I doubt that,” he says. “I truly, sincerely doubt that Batman just wants to have a few words with me without judging my life choices, threatening me, or throwing me in juvie.”

Nightwing frowns. “B wouldn’t do that, I promise. He can be an asshole, but he can listen when he has to.”

Robin scoffs at that and ignores Nightwing’s glare. Tim reads the look as ‘We both know Batman is an asshole, but we’re trying to convince this kid that he’s not that bad, so work with me already.’ He turns to face Tim.

“Have you done anything that warrants landing your ass in juvie?” Robin asks.

“I really don’t think I should answer that.”

Robin smiles, and Tim remembers that this is Jason Todd. Street rat, former thief. The boy who lets him talk about computers and physics and photography without judging him and glares at the other students why try and give him trouble for just being smart. They’re not friends, not really, but for two kids with no friends, it’s as close as either of them gets.

Tim struggles to push down the feeling of guilt tugging at his throat, causing him to choke up.

“Smart kid,” says Robin.

“Robin,” Nightwing scolds. “Not helping.”

Tim thinks Robin rolls his eyes, but he can’t be sure with the domino hiding his eyes. Tim glances at the location of Catwoman’s tracker displayed in her goggles and bites back a curse. He’s eleven. He knows he shouldn’t be cursing, but he admittedly shouldn’t be doing a lot of the things that he is.

 _It’s all about the context,_ he tells himself.

But Catwoman’s tracker hasn’t moved in four minutes. Tim’s almost a hundred percent sure Batman’s cornered her. She’s still in Chinatown, and he’s almost twenty-five minutes away, pretty much smackdab in the center of Diamond District.

Tim’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“Look,” he says. “I’m really not happy with either of you. I was just minding my own business but—you know what, no, Your rudeness really does not matter right now.” He shakes his head, taking a deep breath before looking up and locking eyes with Robin. The other boy tenses in surprise. “Point is, I’m pretty sure Cat’s been cornered by Batman, and she’s probably not going to get out of that conversation, considering he sent the two of you to nab me so she couldn’t slip away so we could just meet up elsewhere. Just get me to Chinatown where they’re ‘talking,’ and I promise I won’t jump off another roof.”

Nightwing blinks at him, obviously skeptical. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I can get us there in twenty minutes.”

“Fifteen,” says Tim flatly. “I could get there in twenty-five, and you’ve got much more experience than I do.”

Nightwing cracks a smile. “Deal,” he says. “You like piggy back rides?”

Tim hates piggy back rides. But he finds himself wrapped securely around Nightwing’s back, holding on for dear life as the three of them swing through Gotham’s skyline towards Chinatown. Nightwing tries to ask him questions, like how old he is or what his name is. He even asks for Tim’s favorite color. Tim just ignores him and digs his fingers into his shoulder until he stops. He’s relieved that Robin doesn’t try to talk to him. Tim doesn’t think he can keep himself from saying something that would give him away.

They make it to the rooftop of a small noodle shop in thirteen and a half minutes. Catwoman and Batman are arguing, though their mouths snap shut when the three of them drop down behind them. Catwoman tenses immediately.

“Let him go,” she seethes, hand going for the whip hanging at her hip.

“Catwoman,” Batman begins, but he is cut off by her hiss as she goes to free the whip from its holster.

Tim scrambles off of Nightwing’s back, jabbing him in the junction between his shoulder and neck when the vigilante doesn’t let him down right away. Tim goes to move to Cat’s side, but Robin’s hand is suddenly there, tight on his shoulder and holding him back. Tim glares up at him. He may be quick and smart, but he can’t break the hold of someone who’s been fighting on the streets since he was a kid.

“Batman, unhand my boy or so help me—”

“I’m fine, Cat,” Tim says. “You don’t have to eviscerate him.”

Catwoman looks at him intently, searching him for any injuries. When she deems that he’s not hurt enough to require direct intervention, she turns back to Batman, keeping one eye on Tim at the same time. Robin’s grip doesn’t loosen.

“You have no right,” she tells Batman. “I don’t go behind your back to look into your boys, and you have no right to go looking into mine.”

“He is a child,” says Batman.

Catwoman gives him a withering look. “Really? Nightwing was younger than him when he started following you around in that yellow cape. Your current Robin isn’t much older than him either. You have no room to talk.”

“They have been trained, thoroughly and extensively, and have a background ideal for the physical strain of the Mission,” Batman says firmly. “Yours has no such thing.”

“He has me,” Catwoman hisses. “And if you’ve been watching him like you say you have, then you know he’s as smart as they come and he’s able to defend himself just fine. I keep an eye on him at all times, and he is very capable of keeping himself safe.”

“He was just apprehended by Nightwing and Robin. Imagine if they had been rogues—”

“Actually,” Tim cuts him off, “I let them take me.”

Batman and Catwoman look at him as though he’s crazy. When neither of them say anything, Tim frowns.

“It was the fastest way for me to get here. I didn’t want them following me home, and I couldn’t outrun them forever. So, I let them carry me here so Cat would have eyes on me.”

Batman observes him, looking at him like he’s taking him apart piece by piece and scrutinizing every part of him.

“I still believe that—”

“It’s none of your damn business—”

“You can’t just take in a stray off the street—”

“Just who the hell—"

“He belongs at home with his—”

Tim scowls, hissing loud enough that Robin sends him a concerned look.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he says scathingly. Batman and Catwoman turn to look at him, and Batman looks both surprised and annoyed that he has been interrupted by the same boy twice in less than five minutes. “Don’t you dare tell me that I belong at ‘home.’ You don’t know anything. Even if you know my name—” Batman does a poor job of hiding his surprise. “—you know nothing.”

“Son,” Batman tries.

Tim snarls, not letting the man get in a single word. “Don’t call me that. You don’t have the whole picture here, whatever you think it may be. Cat saved me. My house is not my home, and there’s a reason I’m not there anymore. I was out running around Gotham before Cat even knew I existed. Even if she didn’t take me in, I would still be out there now, just without my mask and my suit and the training that keeps me safe. You dragged children into your war, but you have no idea what I’ve been fighting in mine. So stay out of it.”

Robin’s grip loosens just enough for Tim to shrug him off. He glances behind him, finding the other boy’s brows drawn together and his lips pressed into a thin line. His entire body is coiled tight, his hands curled into shaking fists. Tim feels something flash inside of him but ignores it for time being. He can’t afford anything but anger or logic right now.

He stomps forward, striding right past Batman until he stands by Catwoman’s side. She instantly draws him into a hug before patting him down for any injuries she may have missed during her scan. 

“Are you okay, kitten?” she asks.

Tim nods. “Just some bruising. They didn’t touch me.”

“Good.” Catwoman faces Batman, though she keeps her arms wrapped around Tim, holding him to her side. “Now are you going to leave us alone or do we need to fight our way out? You know I can call back up, Batman. Don’t make me do that. I will protect him, and if you try to take him, you’ll have more than just me to face.”

Batman observes them, Nightwing and Robin standing silently behind them. Robin is tense and looks angry, and Nightwing looks both concerned and confused.

“At least give me your name,” Batman finally says.

Tim glares. “I’m sure you’ve already figured it out. It’d be hard not to.”

Batman tips his head forward in acknowledgment. “I meant your masked name.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to say anything, kitten,” Catwoman assures him, knowing full well that he hasn’t picked a name yet because nothing seems to fit.

Tim glances up at her, biting the inside of his cheek. He looks back to Batman, and he glares hotly. He’s sure that he doesn’t look intimidating, below average in height, weight, and muscle mass and partially hidden in Catwoman’s arms in a tight hug. But his voice is hard when he speaks, and he knows that Batman is listening, looking for any weakness he can. So, Tim refuses to give him one.

“My name is Stray, and if you come after me or Cat again, I won’t be the only one to know just what a quadruple somersault entails.”

Batman and Robin seem utterly confused, and Catwoman does too for a moment. Tim can see the moment she remembers their Wednesday night conversation, when he told her his full story after the smashing of plates and the best mocha he’s ever had.

Nightwing, though, recoils as though he’s been burned, jaw dropping. “No,” he whispers. “You… No, you aren’t… you can’t be…”

Tim gazes at Nightwing for a moment, feeling a little bad for using him as his threat. However, he lets logic take over, keeps his face blank, letting the threat hang heavy in the air. He turns to Catwoman and offers her a smile.

“Want to get some milkshakes from Nena’s?”

She smiles, ruffling his hair. “Sounds good, kitten.”

Without a look back at the vigilantes, Stray and Catwoman jump from the roof, swinging through Chinatown and all the way to Old Gotham until they arrive at Catwoman’s bike a few streets down from the museum, where the whole night turned into a city-wide chase and a good old dressing down for the Caped Crusader.

Stray is pleased to find that his helmet fits with his suit as long as his hood is down and he has his goggles resting around his neck and not on the top of his head. He holds on tight as he and Catwoman weave in and out of Gotham traffic until they arrive at a little cafe in Little Italy, just a few streets away from Luigi’s.

Nena’s is just closing as they arrive, and it must be a new hire working the counter, because when they order and he hands Stray his medium chocolate shake with whip cream, his eyes are wide and his hands are shaking so bad that Stray is worried he’ll drop the cup. Catwoman laughs and drops a twenty in the tip jar before they head outside and make their way to the roof.

Legs hanging over the edge, swinging in the air as he sips at his milkshake, Stray leans into Catwoman’s side.

“I’m really sorry about tonight.”

Catwoman wraps an arm around his shoulders and squeezes. “Not your fault,” she says simply. “I’m just surprised you let Nightwing and Robin catch you.”

“It was logical.”

“And it was logical using a personal reference to threaten them?”

Stray sighs, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I was angry and scared. I wanted them to know I meant business. Besides, Bats all but admitted that he knows who I am without the cat ears.”

“I’m sorry about that, kitten.”

“Not your fault.”

They sit in a comfortable silence, watching the flickering lights of the city and feeling the cool summer breeze against their skin.

Eventually, Catwoman nudges him with her knee. “So Stray, huh?”

“Yeah.” Tim says, looking at the milkshake in his lap. “He’s called me a stray at least three times at this point, so it seemed fitting.”

Catwoman hums. “I like it. It suits you.”

Softer this time. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But you’re not a stray anymore. You know that, right kitten? You’ve been rehomed. Your mine now. Stray can just be a reminder of where you came from.”

Stray smiles, leaning further into Catwoman’s side and burrowing himself underneath her arm. “Thanks,” he says. “I definitely like it better with you.”

“I would hope so,” Catwoman huffs. “Bats’ nonsense about you being safer at that damned manor? Please. If only he knew about your nightly escapades before I met you.”

“Before you broke into my house, you mean.”

“Hey, it was like three months later that I started hanging around.”

“I know you put an alarm on the skylight that first night, Cat.”

Catwoman grins. “What can I say? You made a good impression.”

“I’m glad,” Tim says with a laugh. “I’m also really glad I gave you that tiger.”

“Oh, I love that tiger. It’s my favorite.”

Tim laughs again, drinking the last of his shake and peering out at Gotham as it spreads around him in every direction. Somewhere, Robin and Nightwing are probably badgering Batman. The thought makes him smile. The city thrums with life around them, and Stray finds it in himself to say,

“Yeah, well, you’re my favorite, by far.”

Catwoman is quiet for a moment. Then she ruffles his hair once more and laughs. “And here I thought you were a Bat fan for life.”

“Nah,” says Stray. “Maybe before. He’s a bit of a jerk, though. Nightwing and Robin would agree with me.”

“Really?”

Stray hums. “Yeah. They said some things that make me think they don’t all get along that well outside of the masks. But that’s family, I guess.” He glances up at Catwoman, nudging her until she meets his gaze. “I’m really happy you picked me, Cat. Really happy. And maybe I used to dream about being a Bat, but I’ve known for a while now that being a cat will always be infinitely better.”

Catwoman smiles, soft and sweet in a way she only smiles for Stray. “I’m glad to hear that, Kitten. Besides,” she sniffs, and no one will ever know if it’s because she’s emotional or feeling haughty as she says, “us cats have a much better fashion sense. Honestly. Those boots and tights. What was he thinking?”

Stray laughs, and as it carries into the night, he knows that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Update: So I finally got a Tumblr. It's painfully empty, but I love new friends, so hit me up if you ever want to chat. I love chatting about writing (both my works, WIPs, and just in general) and other random stuff. Find me at hey-its-lyn if you're interested.


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